


All that we possess

by Nevermakemeblue



Category: South Park
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gravedigger Stan, High Schooler Kenny, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kenny is 17, M/M, Stan is 29, Stan is older but otherwise everything is the same, Stenny - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-06-16 16:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15440940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevermakemeblue/pseuds/Nevermakemeblue
Summary: Kenny knew off the bat that it was an unusual and almost macabre friendship to cultivate. But with a curse like his who needed usual.





	1. Chapter 1

“No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old

terrestrial stress;

Chill detraction stirs no sigh;

Fear of death has even bygone us: death gave all

that we possess.”

_Friends Beyond by Thomas Hardy_

_._

The sky was grey when he woke up. It rolled above him, a heavy avalanche of ominous clouds. It wasn’t going to rain; they were moving too fast for that, but Kenny felt the cold threat against his cheek and in the crook of his neck where his hood fell open. 

The ground was stone against his back. The first frost had been earlier in the month, and the earth had been freezing and thawing indecisively for a few weeks now. By November, it would be solid through and what little life was left would flee this place. As it was now, it just made Kenny’s back ache. The soil had been turned over too many times for there to be any grass. The stray stands that shot up around the edge of the plot were dry and scratchy from the temperamental weather. Still Kenny didn’t move. He itched and shivered and fidgeted, but he stayed where he was. Tilting his head back, he looked at the imposing stone above him, at the stiff, solemn letters of his name.

How had he died this time?

He couldn’t remember. It must have been quick then.

Kenny closed his eyes and listened. There was something rustling about in the shrubs not far from him. He heard it peck and rummage through the dry twigs and leaves. It might have been a bird; he wasn’t sure if they’d all taken off yet. Above it, he could hear the rumble of cars in the distance, the thick reminder that beyond the trees and the mist and the dead, the clock was ticking on.

There was a steady scrape of metal against dirt, the crunch of approaching footsteps. Kenny listened to it build as it got closer.

“Hey kid, if you’re gonna take a nap can you do it somewhere else? I’ve got enough dead people to deal with already.”

He didn’t open his eyes. The man’s voice was rough with exasperation. He affected a tone that left little room for surprise and even less for argument. This was a man who was hard to impress.

“But it’s my grave.”

The man didn’t even pause.

“Then can you finish up? I don’t think mommy would appreciate you catching a cold at Grandpa Kenny’s grave kid.”

“Not kid.” He opened his eyes. Blinking against the light, he found the man and smiled. “Kenny.”

It was the groundskeeper. Kenny had caught glimpses of him in the past, but only ever of the navy cap and overalls as they slung the dirt of yet another person with a more permanent deal than him.

He’d always assumed he was older. He had a certain lumbering gait that Kenny had pinned on a middle-aged man. The guy in front of him couldn’t be any older than thirty. He may even have been handsome beneath all that scruff, dirt, and resentfulness. Kenny enjoyed it. He liked the man’s face and the reluctance with which he now realised he’d been sucked into a conversation whether he liked it or not.

Heaving a sigh that was really quite rude, the man spoke.

"Family name?”

“No, my name.” Pointing backwards, Kenny said it again, “this is my grave.” 

He didn’t know why he was being so insistent. He hadn’t played this game in years now. He’d stopped around the time he’d noticed that disbelief no longer amused him but eroded him like cliffs on a shore. He’d been scared if he kept it up, there’d be nothing of him left. Yet here he was inviting it, opening himself up again on nothing more than a passing whim. He didn’t know why. 

The groundskeeper was leaning his weight on his shovel. Curling his hand around the top, he pressed his chin to it, ignoring the way the dirt on his glove transferred to his face. It suited him. A man like that must be used to filth.

The man took him in from gravestone to parka to scruffy, too-small boots.

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “are you a ghost?”

It wasn’t a joke. He was dead serious. It lightened Kenny’s heart.

“No, I just came back to life.”

“You must do that a lot.”

Kenny still hadn’t moved, but at those words he lifted up, resting his weight on his forearms.

“Why do you say that?”

The groundskeeper shrugged and nodded towards his tombstone.

“This one’s been here for about thirteen years, maybe longer. You’ve either got a pretty nasty habit or you’ve got a hell of a lot of catching up to do.”

He was too dumbstruck to reply at first, but then suddenly as someone turned on a fountain, the laughter poured out of him. It made the groundskeeper hesitate unsure if he was being made fun of or not, but this kind of delight couldn’t possibly be mean.

With a grunt, Kenny got to his feet. Brushing himself down, he smiled at the man and said, “old man what’s your name?”

He hesitated again, but eventually replied, “Stan.”

“Stan.” Kenny repeated it, felt it out on his tongue. “Stan, are you a priest?”

Stan pulled a face.

“No, I’m a gravedigger.”

“I see.” Kenny stretched. “Hey, what day is it today?”

“Thursday.”

“Still October?”

“Yeah.”

Stan was looking at him with the kind of bare-faced curiosity of a child who had not yet been forced to adhere to logic. He answered Kenny’s questions bluntly with no need to hear the reason behind them. Kenny liked him instantly.

“Then we’re good,” he grinned, “I’ve only been gone two days.”

When they were stood together like this, Kenny noticed new things about him like the bags under his eyes and the whiskey on his breath. But he also saw the original sketch of a friendly face below. He’d been right, the man was handsome.

Stan wasn’t looking at him in the same way. He was frowning. He probably saw a kid about sixteen, maybe he’d be alright someday, but for now he was still awkwardly growing into himself only hindered by the occasional plight of death.

“You better get home then. Your parents will be worried.”

Kenny nodded, knowing that his parents had probably only now remembered he existed but agreeing anyway.

“It was nice to meet you Stan,” he said with a smile. He said it so deeply, so earnestly, he could see that Stan was initially taken aback, but after a moment, the groundskeeper nodded.

Kenny turned his back, zipping his parka properly, the grin still in place.

“Oh hey, kid.”

Kenny paused. He turned around just in time to catch what was thrown to him. Holding it before him, he opened it in his palm. It was a Twix. Kenny stared at the chocolate then at the man. 

Stan was leaving. Tipping his hat over his face, he pulled his shovel from the dirt and walked away.

Kenny looked back to his hand and curled his fingers around the candy. His cheeks flushed as he grinned. Opening the wrapper, he took a bite. The chocolate was sweet on his tongue after death. It rinsed the taste of the grave away. With another bite, Kenny straightened his back and began the walk home.

 

  .

 

 Kenny didn’t get much when he died.

He came back clean; there were never scars or marks from what had happened. No proof was allowed to follow him from the afterlife. Anything he had on him would be left behind. He liked to imagine that somewhere there was a void slowly filling up with coins and pens and ticket stubs and anything else he happened to have in his pockets when he died. More likely, his friends scavenged his body whenever it happened.

What he did get was his orange parka. Kenny didn’t like it. He fucking hated orange. But the jacket was as much a part of him as his limbs or his organs. It grew with him as he aged, and even if every atom of his existence was disintegrated, as had happened once or twice in his life, when Kenny woke at his grave it would be with that same faithful orange parka.

 

.

 

Kenny squinted. The sun was in his eyes, but it didn’t burn hot. He wasn’t sure where he was, but somewhere in the back of his mind the smells and sounds were telling him it was morning.

Oh right, he was here again.

Twice in two weeks, that was fast.

He sat up. Leaning against his headstone with a groan, Kenny tried to grasp at the memory. It had been an explosion for sure. His body still ached with the phantom tearing of limbs. Still, it was one of the better ways to die; at least it was quick.

Head buzzing, he took in his surroundings. He’d been right about it being morning. The cemetery was still. It usually was, but in the afternoons, there were sometimes visitors or ceremonies. If not, there were at least bouquets and offerings, the heady scent of incense a reminder of life among the dead. In the morning it was different. Incense and candles burned out, and the only sound was the wind in the trees.

He thought of the gravedigger. Stan probably wasn’t up yet.

There was no point hanging around, the pain wasn’t going anywhere. Leaning his weight on the gravestone, Kenny got to his feet. He was in no mood to rush, so instead he wandered. His grave was towards the middle of the plot, just out of sight of the entrance where it became more a park than a churchyard. There was a pond somewhere further in, but he only knew of it in conversation. It was also how he knew the general direction of the groundskeeper’s cabin from which a figure was coming now.

Kenny watched him approach. Stan’s attention was held by the wheelbarrow in his grip, so he didn’t notice him until the last moment. When he did, he stared at him blankly, and for a moment, Kenny was worried he didn’t remember him. Eventually, Stan broke the silence.

“You’re up early.”

Kenny smiled, helpless to the relief that flooded him.

“Death keeps odd hours,” he said.

“Don’t I know it,” Stan grunted in agreement, “how’d it happen this time?”

Kenny smiled, not caring whether Stan believed him or not. He was just happy that someone was playing along. Rubbing his still pounding head, he said, “I think it was a highly localised gas leak.”

Stan hummed thoughtfully. Without comment, he began wheeling again. Kenny fell into step beside him, eyeing the contents of the wheelbarrow. It was filled to the brim with pumpkins, lights, fake cobwebs.

“Halloween?”

“Every damn year they make me do this,” Stan grumbled darkly, “it’s my busiest night of the year.”

“Seriously?”

“You know that asshole who does the pumpkin patch?”

“Dr. Spooky?” Kenny asked. He couldn’t help but smile when Stan looked at him in disgust for having that information readily available.

“He also organises walking tours through here on Halloween night.” Stan’s voice dropped to a grumble. “Can’t decorate his own damn tour though can he? Fucker’s afraid of his own damn shadow.”

Kenny chuckled, letting his eyes trail back in the direction Stan had come. The path was already littered with lights and trinkets. Stan decorated with an ease that suggested years of practise. If he’d been here as long as Kenny’s grave, then it had been a while. Perhaps he was older than he looked after all. 

Kenny watched as he got up onto a bench under a towering oak tree to reach for an overhanging branch.

“What do you do for Halloween?”

Stan glanced over his shoulder from where he was hanging the lantern. He turned his back again before he answered.

“Nothing.”

“That’s lame.”

“I’m not thirteen kid, what would I do?”

“How old are you then?”

“Old enough.”

“What a crappy answer.” Kenny took a pumpkin from the wheelbarrow and dropped it carelessly at the foot of a random tombstone. “I can find out you know.”

Jumping off the bench, Stan brushed his hands together. He looked at Kenny the way he had that first time, utterly unimpressed.

“So do.”

“You’re no fun.”

The groundskeeper huffed amusedly. Wheelbarrow in tow, he moved on, and Kenny, like a loyal dog, trailed after him.

Their route led them to the cemetery gate, a strong iron structure like the one on old Mephesto’s lab. Stan had let him help along the way, but at the gate he made him say goodbye. Kenny looked back when he was a fair distance away. Stan had retrieved a ladder from one of the outposts and was now scaling the side column with a menacing jack-o-lantern in hand.

Kenny watched him thoughtfully. It probably wasn’t such a good idea for a man who smelled that strongly of liquor at something AM to be tackling ladders, but Stan hung it up and made it safely back to the ground with ease. He moved on to the other side, and Kenny wondered about Dr. Spooky’s walking tours. Perhaps a haunted stroll through the cemetery would be nice tonight. Perhaps he would see Stan’s house.

He brought it up to his friends that afternoon. They weren’t interested.

 

.

 

The question became a routine of sort. Like hellos and how-are-yous, when Stan saw him he would ask how he died, and Kenny would tell him.

Their walks through the yard were not long. Kenny was little more than a shadow to him. He would trail after Stan as he worked. Occasionally he would try to help, Stan may even let him, but inevitably he would bring them to the gate where Stan would say goodbye.

Kenny found this out along the way; Stan was twenty-nine as of the day they’d met. He was a divorcee. He was a drunk like his dad. He was pretty like his mom. He didn’t laugh much. He didn’t socialise much. He’d been digging graves for thirteen years. Kenny wanted to be his friend.

Stan didn’t tell him any of these things. He was never particularly open about himself, but this was South Park where gossip was currency. Anything Kenny wanted to know, others would tell him at the mere sight of him.

He was sure it would not take long for word to turn around. With barely any prompting, Stan would have been able to learn everything about him from his family tree to the skeletons in his closet. But either he never did, or he never asked, because they spoke only of what Kenny told him.

Kenny returned the favour, and so, two weeks became two months became a habit.

 

.

 

He was dreaming of drowning.

It was the rain that woke him this time, small drops that broke into his dream, blending in reality. In his head, Kenny knew he was dreaming and that he should wake, but he clung to it anyway. Perhaps because reality was wet with drizzle and sludge and the black ice forming at his feet.  It couldn’t last though. With every drop on his cheek the dream drained from him until he was muddy, cold, and fully awake. With a sigh, Kenny opened his eyes to the night sky.

No wonder he’d thought he was drowning again; he was drenched to the bone. His parka to him, pulling him back into the grave with its weight. His jeans were soaked too, cutting off his circulation to his thighs until they burned and itched as if scalded. No doubt his skin was bright red under the fabric.

Kenny cursed for the hell of it. Back from the grave, and he felt utterly miserable.

Despite the dark and the cold and the rain, he trudged slowly through the cemetery. He should have hurried to shelter, but he just didn’t have the energy. This kind of winter rain was the worst. It battered him down, hammering the heaps of snow and pounding it into sleek sheets of deadly ice. Kenny would bet money that his next death would be a fall. Damn, he hated breaking his neck.

He had no idea what time it was. Black sky in January meant it could be anywhere from late afternoon to ten in the morning. Whatever it was, Kenny just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep until everything stopped and the sun came out again.

He yelped as he staggered, accidentally stepping his foot into a puddle. As he’d predicted, it had a base of ice. In a split second, Kenny crashed to the floor.

This time he didn’t just curse. He yelled.

Ass-deep in cold water, covered in dirt, Kenny screamed.

“FUCK!!! GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!!! FUCK YOU!! YOU COCK-SUCKING, BALL-LOVING CU-“

The thunder replied, booing above him and for a second Kenny thought he would be struck all over again.

Seventeen years… how many times had he died?

The yell caught in his throat. The rain washed his screams away. Kenny could curse all he wanted, only the sky could hear him. Cold and defeated, Kenny fell silent until something caught his eye.

The bench beneath the tree was just in front of him, the one Stan had used to prop up lanterns a few months ago. The branches were bare as they had been that day, but they were thick enough to form a shelter. There was a dry spot on the bench barely wider than a person. On it was a hamper. It didn’t look forgotten, someone had left it behind.

 Wobbling to his feet, Kenny made his way over. The wooden lid creaked when he opened it. Inside there was a thermos, a blanket and, to Kenny’s delight, a flashlight.

Discarding his jacket, Kenny wrapped himself in the old woollen blanket. It was musty and itched against his skin like Brillo pads, but Kenny didn’t care. Beneath the musty smell, there was something warmer, something like whiskey and firewood. It was as good as any calling card. Kenny burrowed himself deeper into the smell.

There was hot chocolate in the thermos. In the shelter of the tree, Kenny gulped it down, not caring that it seared his lips on the way. There would be small bumps on his tongue from where it burned later, but it was worth it for the way it warmed his chest and brought sensation back to his fingertips.

Stan had given him what he needed to get home. But when Kenny finally huddled up and began to move, his feet carried him deeper into the cemetery, in the direction of the house he knew was there.

He found the pond through a thicket of trees eventually. Because it was so far below ground level, it snuck up on him. Raindrops bubbled on the black surface, loosening the banks and letting them slide into the gaping mouth of the water.

Stan’s house was beyond the pond. Kenny saw the lights first, warm and welcoming in the freezing cold. Gripping tightly at the edges of the blanket, he approached it cautiously.

The house was out of step with the rest of the town, a small logwood cabin nestled among the pine trees. The front door was up some steps, tucked away in the corner of the porch. It was too dark for Kenny to see any detail, but a room was lit up beyond the porch. He climbed up into the shelter. The rain had grown heavier as he walked. It clattered against the roof above his head now, but through the crack of an open window he could hear the errant notes of a radio.

The room wasn’t big, doubling as a kitchen and living area. Kenny moved in closer to the window, looking for Stan. He found him on the sofa in the corner with his legs propped up and his gaze on the ceiling. There was a glass of something in his hands. Kenny couldn’t make out what it was from the window, only that it wasn’t his first; the bottle was half empty.

Kenny tapped lightly on the glass. He had to do it twice more before the figure inside moved, but when he did Stan looked at him evenly before he made for the door. Kenny met him there.

Glass in hand, Stan looked him over.

“Guess you can’t die of hypothermia.”

“Can I come in dude?”

Stan stepped aside. It was as good an invitation as any. Smiling gratefully, Kenny slipped passed him into the house. His muscles eased in the initial warmth only to cease up again instantly. Still, he dropped to the floor with a sigh of relief, pulling off his sodden boots.

“Thank you for the stuff. You seriously saved me,” he said through chattering teeth, “how did you know?”

Stan watched him with the same wary curiosity he would a drowned rat. Taking a gulp, he replied, “they said something about a freak lightning storm at the high school. I figured you might show up.”

Kenny stared at him bewildered. He pulled of his socks too. In doing so, the blanket slipped form his shoulders, revealing the white t-shirt below. He was soaked to the bone, and even though he willed himself to relax, the shivering take hold of him. Kenny shook and trembled and his crooked teeth clattered together louder than the rain-driven symphony outside.

It was his first time seeing Stan out of uniform. It took him a moment to realise because Stan wore his work clothes with the same amount of ease as he did sweats and faded t-shirts. He lived in that uniform. A gravedigger was all he was.

Stan was slow to react. He couldn’t stand totally still without leaning against something. As he was now in the middle of his hallway, he swayed slightly back and forth. Kenny should have hated Stan’s drinking the way he did his father’s. He should have resented him instantly but sat on the wooden floor in that dimly lit hallway, Kenny didn’t have an ounce of hatred in him.

He couldn’t read Stan, hadn’t been able to from the start. He could infer his thoughts from the crease of his brow or the curve of his lips or the bend of his spine, but he could never know. What passed between them there, staring at each other pensively, Kenny didn’t know what it meant. Only that Stan broke away first.

He crossed to a pantry in the corner. Pulling out a towel and a change of clothes, he threw them to Kenny.

“I think you’d better shower. Don’t want you dying again so soon,” he said, nodding towards the door directly opposite the entrance, “I can get you a jacket so you can get home safe.”

With his friends, the filthy jokes would have been ready. The thought even occurred to Kenny now, but something about this was different. He obeyed him silently.

Stan’s bathroom wasn’t at all what he’d expected. It was small, and cramped and grimy with dirt but that was a given. What Kenny hadn’t expected were the wall to wall cases of pinned butterflies, dried flowers, and plant diagrams. His wet clothes dripping onto the tiles, Kenny had to take a second, to reconcile the room with the person he’d imagined Stan to be. A grave digger, a drunk and now an amateur botanist? It made no sense, but it thrilled a smile out of him all the same.

Showering took the final weight of his back. It eased his muscles and his nerves, so he allowed himself a minute or two, letting the heat run over him. However, years of bellows at the door about water bills kept him from dawdling too long. The taps creaked off and the steam chased him out of the shower.

Kenny scrubbed at his hair with the towel. Otherwise naked, his eyes slid to the mirror. There wasn’t much of him, never had been. When he put them on, Stan’s clothes slid right off. The sweats would have hung at his thighs without the knot he tied at the waist, but there was nothing he could do about the shirt. Stan was a fully-grown adult. He worked with his hands. Kenny had noticed his broad shoulders and the tight fit of his overalls when he first saw him. Looking in the mirror now at how the shirt slipped of his shoulders like some delicate waif really drove it home; he had the body of a kid. That was probably all Stan saw. Kenny frowned in frustration, draping the towel over his shoulders so it was less obvious. Steeling himself, he opened the door to re-join Stan.

“You know I didn’t have you tagged as a lepidopterist.”

Stan was in the kitchenette when Kenny returned. He had his back to him and was fiddling with something on the counter. At the sound of movement, he glanced at him over his shoulder.

“What the hell is that?”

Kenny swiped a stray drop of water running down his throat with the towel.

“It’s a fancy word for geeks like you who pin up butterflies in their bathrooms.”

“Oh.” Stan stumbled a little as he walked but caught himself on the counter. “Those aren’t mine. The last guy who lived here was into that stuff. I never took it down.”

Kenny stared at him. Dumbfounded, he let his eyes slip around the room that had slipped through time. The old-fashioned decorations, the vintage radio, the countless books on botany that lined the shelves above the couch, the woollen blanket, they built a story, but it was the story of another man.

Christ, even Stan’s house wasn’t his own.

“All these years you’ve been here, you haven’t changed anything?”

But it didn’t seem to bother him. Stan kept working with his back to Kenny.

“Nothing to replace it with,” he remarked, then finally turned his way with a plate in hand “You hungry?”

He’d made grilled cheese. There was another one underway on the stove. Kenny wordlessly accepted the plate handed to him, his stomach rumbling with the storm outside.

Kenny took a seat on the sofa, placing the plate on the coffee table before him, but he didn’t take a bite until Stan joined him. Together, they ate in silence, listening to the rainwater as it dribbled from the rooftop. His death cloud must have moved to the mountains by now. The thunder was no longer upon them. He could hear it roiling in the distance. Closer to home, there was only rain and the radio.

Setting the plate aside, Kenny felt a strange despondence come over him.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

Stan didn’t reply but looked his way with a nod. Smiling in appreciation, Kenny said, “why do you believe me?”

Stan chewed his sandwich pensively before he answered, “shouldn’t I?”

“No I-“ Kenny hesitated, tempering his knee-jerk reaction. “You’ve gotta admit it sounds insane.”

Stan finished eating. Finishing his own plate, Stan picked up his glass again. He’d refilled it since Kenny was in the shower. He leaned back into the sofa, taking a sip and staring off into space.

“Well yeah,” he said in a mumble against the rim of the glass, “but it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He would have left it at that, except Kenny wouldn’t let him. Sitting so his back was nestled into the corner of the sofa, he curled up his knees, urging Stan on with expression alone. At first, Stan looked like he wanted to resist, but after a moment, he finally began.

“I think I met Satan once.”

Kenny’s eyebrows shot up.

“You what?”

 “Yeah, he tried to teach me about temptation and vices and stuff,” Stan snorted and scratched his stubbled chin. “That worked out well.”

“Dude.”

The corners of Stan’s mouth quirked up a little. It might even have been a smile.

“Crazy shit happens in South Park every day. You say you’ve come back from the dead, why the hell not?” Stan’s attention slid back to the ceiling. “I actually know a guy who’s been through something similar.”

“Seriously? Who?”

“You don’t know him,” Stan said offhandedly, marking the end of the conversation, “it’s late. You should probably get going soon.”

“But it’s still raining,” Kenny whined. When he continued he spoke softly. He leaned forward, He held eye-contact. He did everything he could that so often charmed the girls at school.  “Can’t I stay?”

But Stan wasn’t from his school. He was an adult. As experienced or inexperienced as he may be, he knew when he was being worked over.

“No.” he said firmly. “You’ve got school in the morning.”

“It’s Saturday.”

He tried again.

“Your parents will-“

“They don’t care.”

Stan’s expression twisted and gnarled like the branches of an old tree. Kenny wasn’t oblivious. It was clear what he needed to say, but neither of them wanted to hear it. After a brief pause, Stan bit the bullet.

“Look kid, think about this. I’m a thirty-year-old man.” He liked to do that when he talked about his age, inflate it to drive another decade between them. “I live alone in the middle of nowhere. You can’t just come to my house like this, people will-“

“Fuck people,” Kenny cut in with a frown, “and fuck you. Stop calling me that.”

Kid. He was coming to hate the word.

Stan stopped short. It was probably the first time Kenny had sworn at him like that. It had its intended effect, Stan dropped the condescension, but all the sincerity remained. Leaning forward, he turned on the sofa to face him as equals.

“Kenny,” he said it firmly and deliberately. His name. It rushed through him. “You have to think about these things.”

Kenny flushed.

“There’s nothing wrong with me just sleeping here. I can use the couch,” he said. Suddenly, it mattered too much that he stayed. There was a monster lurking outside in the dark that was bigger than the thunderstorm. He was scared of what he’d let loose before he’d been saved by a picnic hamper and a tired blanket. 

Kenny would make it home if he left, but there was nothing for him there. In here, he had warmth. He had Stan.

“Please, Stan?” he pleaded, “please let me stay.” Fear and desperation bled into his voice. Once again, Kenny felt rawer than he had in months. Something about Stan, drove him to bare himself over and over again.

There was a different quality to Stan’s silence this time. He wasn’t caught up in his own thoughts, he was caught up in Kenny’s. Frowning, he pursed his lips.

“On the couch. You leave first thing.”

Kenny lit up.

“Yes!”

“And only because it’s raining.”

“Of course.”

To Kenny’s utter astonishment, the frown broke to reveal a smile. A real one. It broke the convention of his face, using spaces and lines Kenny hadn’t seen before. For a split second, Stan looked years younger, and Kenny could picture them as classmates or even friends. For a moment, he thought he could see what that might be like, but then, just as suddenly, it was gone, and the years piled on again. Stan retreated to his place on the sofa, slouching against the tartan cushions.

Kenny was captivated. He felt he might burst if he didn’t do anything. Balancing on his palms, he rolled onto his knees. He leaned in close to Stan, not enough to block his view, but enough to appear just on the fringe of it.

“Stan,”

“Mm?”

“Can I hug you?”

Stan snorted. His eyes slid shut.

“No.” 

He hadn’t expected anything else but clicked his tongue in disappointment anyway. Quietly, Kenny settled beside him, their arms pressing together. Stan made no move to stop him.

Rain clattered on the rooftop over their heads.

Piano notes played on the radio.

Kenny fell asleep on Stan’s shoulder.

 

.

 

Stan had moved into the cabin at the end of the cemetery nearly five years ago. He had come in the morning, sliding seamlessly into the life of the man who had serve him tea so often before.

He didn’t bring much with him. There hadn’t been much to take. The shared property of his marriage, when it came to dividing it in two, had left Stan with little more than a box of old clothes and records, and his Gibson guitar.

That first morning he made coffee he made too much of it. When he made lunch, he made too much of that too. In time, however, the portions lessened. Stan started shopping for one. He got used to being alone.  

 

.

 

Kenny woke to the sound of water. It dripped from the kitchen tap, trickled from the drain on the roof, rippled in puddles and ponds in the morning breeze. He could hear the birds too through the crack in the window. Small twittering things that had probably drawn the last gravedigger here.

The morning sun filtered through the glass, throwing a beam of light across the centre of the room where it landed just above Kenny’s head. When he opened his eyes, he followed it back out past the empty plates and bottles, the messy kitchen countertops, and the clock on the windowsill.

He blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. He could make out the bleary arms of the analogue clock just gone nine in the morning.

At some point, he had been laid on his back. There was a pillow under his head, not the lumpy tartan things that he’d thrown on the floor like sacks of potatoes, but a proper pillow. He turned into it now. It needed washing, but it smelt of Stan. The blanket must have been from Stan’s bed too, because it was softer and heavier than the one he’d left in the hamper. Glancing down at it, Kenny could make out a pattern of sketched herbs, each of them labelled; basil, tarragon, parsley, chives, sage. The last gravedigger was probably a nice old man. 

Kenny sat up with a stretch, his eyes searching for Stan, but he wasn’t there. Kenny’s ankles creaked when he got to his feet, a new body with new growing pains. Rolling out the tension in his neck, Kenny set about finding his host. The soles of his feet tapped like paws across the floor. Kenny crossed the kitchen, then the hallway with the bathroom door still slightly ajar and made for the only other room in the house. With a careful creak, he opened the door.

The smell hit him first, the thick, stale scent of a person in a shut room. There was no light but what Kenny brought with him from the hall; all the windows and curtains were drawn tight. Kenny could make out the shapes of a desk, a dresser, and the splayed-out figure of Stan asleep face down on a bare bed before him.

It was the only room that Stan had made his mark on. The floor was riddled with discarded clothes, bottles and wrappers and other things that never made it to the trash. Moving closer, Kenny saw assorted records on the desk, but it was too dark to read the covers. There was an LP player on the dresser and a guitar in the corner, although Kenny could see the dust motes in the air, collecting on surfaces. It seemed Stan found little time for music these days. It would have made sense to attribute them to his eccentric botanist predecessor, but in his heart, Kenny knew they belonged to Stan.

Stan had the heavy sleep of a man who drank too much. He didn’t wake when Kenny let himself in, nor when he began to tap around the room. Eventually, he made his way over to Stan, dropping to his haunches at the top of the bed. He was snoring deeply, oblivious to the world around him. With his head in his hands, Kenny watched him for a while. He couldn’t see much in the shadows, but just the framework, just the faint flutter of his eyelashes was enough.

Pressing his fingertips to his lips, Kenny tried to contain the smile.

“Hey Stan,” he murmured, gently placing a hand on his shoulder, “I’m going now.” 

Stan grunted. There was a small hiccough to his breathing, then he was snoring again. Kenny bit down on his tongue in an effort not to reach out and squeeze him awake. He needed the sleep.

Kenny allowed himself one indulgence. Lightly and briefly, he let his fingers brush the tips of black hair. It was soft to the touch, sliding from Stan’s neck like ribbons. At his forehead, his hair was matted into knots. Kenny wanted to brush it aside but stopped himself. Finally, he got to his feet. Returning to the living room, he retrieved the bedding from the sofa and as carefully as possible returned it to its owner. When the blanket fell around him, Stan stirred a little, but he didn’t wake. Kenny left him to sleep, closing the door gently behind him.

There was a plastic bag waiting for him at the entrance. Peeking inside, Kenny found the damp mess of his clothes. His boots were on the doormat. They stank of wet dog and squelched when he put them on. Kenny cringed at the feeling, but he could manage. However, his parka was gone. He’d left the blasted thing at the bench, too pissed off to take it with him.

There was something else waiting for him. Hanging off the handle, Stan had left him a brown jacket. Like the rest of his clothes, it was worn and faded, but there was more to it. It must have been older because it was probably two sizes too small for the man he knew now. Kenny slipped it on, and the sleeves curled perfectly just below his wrists. It didn’t swallow him when he zipped it up, but the timeworn lining brushed soft against his skin. Curiously, he rummaged through the pockets.

“That’s a nasty habit you’ve got there.”

He jumped, hands flying into the air in surrender. He turned slowly as if facing an armed guard. At the sight of Stan leaning lazily in the doorway cocooned in his covers, Kenny smiled disarmingly.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Nah.” Stan broke his sleep with a yawn. “You off then?”

Kenny nodded. Remembering the jacket, he said, “you sure it's cool for me to take this?”

Stan pulled away from the threshold. He approached sleepily, duvet dragging after him like a bride’s train. “It’s cool. It’s too small for me anyway. You can keep it if you like.” 

He said it so casually Kenny thought he might burst.

“I’ll think about it,” he murmured fondly, “thank you for letting me stay.”

And Stan must have been half asleep still, because when Kenny moved to open the door, he felt a warm hand on his head. Heedlessly, Stan ruffled his hair.

“Take care, Ken.”

Then he was gone. The front door closed behind him.

Kenny took a moment to recover. Flushed with happiness, he pulled the red collar over his face and inhaled. The morning cold poured from his lips in vapour. It stole the sensation from his bare fingertips.

Swinging his bag of clothes, he had descended the steps before he saw them. Across the pond, at one of the first graves along, the Stotch family were watching him. Butter’s grandmother had passed late last year. He was stood before her grave now, white lilies in hand. Kenny sobered immediately down to a walk, raising his hand in greeting when he realised there was no avoiding them.

Butters and his parents waved in reply. Their thoughts were plain across their faces.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s 26 degrees and sunny out, and I’m writing about Halloween and snow. Idk where these moods come from.
> 
> I hate the cold but I’ve been spending my summer listening to Hozier and going for really long walks in the woods. Nobody should be surprised that this is what came out of it.
> 
> This is a two-parter. Second half will probably be up next week.  
> I hope you liked it. As always, would love to hear your thoughts


	2. Chapter 2

Stan Marsh was a peculiar man.

At least, that’s what people had to say about him on a good day. On a bad day it was quite different. Then the peculiarities of the man became troubling. Like most other men in South Park, he suffered from a problem with drink, but unlike most others, unlike his father, Stan Marsh was not a social drinker; he wasn’t a social anything. Stan was rarely seen outside of his workplace, and the cemetery was admittedly not a place that people enjoyed being.

In the years since his wife had left him, other children of the town had grown up and moved on. They had become other people with other lives and carefully curated, regularly updated social media profiles. With no such thing to go off, Stan’s image as the sad, drunk, divorcee had cemented itself among the people of South Park.

Stan had been a troublemaker growing up (the town had yet to experience the wrath of Eric Cartman then), but no more mischievous than any other boy. Back then they liked to call him precocious. These days, he made the mothers at Café Monet shake their heads over cooling coffee cups in mourning of his wasted potential.

“And remember that lovely song he wrote?” they would say, “he could have made so much of himself.”

“It’s such a shame what that marriage did to him. This is why you should never marry so young. That’s what I told my son.”

“If you ask me, it begins earlier than that. Remember his uncle? And we all know how his father was. It’s a miracle he wasn’t arrested sooner.”

“Oh, and his mother. Always asking for that divorce. If you ask me that kind of unstable home environment doomed him from the start.”

“And what about that lot he always hung around with at school? Those children with their cigarettes and all that black clothing? If you ask me someone should have sorted them out a long time ago.”

If you ask me.

If you ask me.

_If you ask me._

Kenny didn’t ask anyone. By the end of the week, he’d heard it all.

 

.

 

Word soon got out that the cemetery groundskeeper was preying on young boys. People sunk their teeth into it with a zeal not seen since Thanksgiving. The words were turned over, masticated in their mouths until they spat them out revised and distorted at someone new. Each link in the chain added fire.

At school, the whispers and stares followed Kenny around every corner. When adults spoke to him, they softened their voices and drew in their eyebrows. Kenny was delicate. For the first time he could remember, he was the centre of attention, and there was a giant sign on his back, ‘ _CAUTION’_ , it said ‘ _Handle with care’_. It was absurd and frustrating and exactly what Stan had warned him about.  

Kenny pursed his lips around his pen. If Stan had any sense at all, he’d avoid Kenny like the plague. If he was, however, Kenny had no way of knowing. He hadn’t died since that night, and without a ready excuse, hadn’t been to the graveyard since. Kenny had never hesitated like this before. It was disorientating for someone like him, but he sank into the unfamiliar feeling with discomfort. Underneath it all, he couldn’t ignore the thrill.

A kick to his chair jolted him awake. Discarding his thoughts, Kenny turned to the person next to him. It never mattered much if he spaced out during class, but Eric Cartman would not be ignored.

“Kenny, would you listen you piece of crap? We’re talking about you here.”

Scrunching his nose in disgust, Kenny refocused.

“Gross. Why?”

On his other side, Kyle sneered disapprovingly at Cartman before turning his attention to Kenny.

“We were just wondering if you wanna grab something to eat tonight. _Our_ treat.” Kyle looked very pointedly at Cartman when he said it, and Kenny could see the argument that had already been had and lost like it was playing out before him.

“Sure, dude. What’s the occasion?”

It should have been a normal question, but Kenny couldn’t remember the last time the guys had been so nice about, well, anything. Since when did they treat each other? He dropped to the empty desk, resting his face in the pillow of his arms. Kenny didn’t bring anything with him to school anymore. It had been a long time since he’d put any real effort into it. He wasn’t even sure what class they were having next.

Kyle glanced at him then hesitantly to Cartman for support where he found none. Shifting uncomfortably, he said, “no occasion. We just wanted to catch up you know? You’ve been kind of MIA recently.”

Honestly, Kenny hadn’t been anymore out of it than usual. He wasn’t avoiding them. Kyle and Eric just had a tendency to get swallowed up in each other and whatever nonsense it was that had the town spellbound in its meandros of bullshit. Kenny enjoyed the adventures occasionally but knew that more often than not it ended in death for him. It had always been this way. From the outside, Kenny knew he looked like the glue that held them together. People thought he was the one that kept them in check, but that had never been the case. Kenny was a ghost. He was their down time. When the wars were won, after Cartman or Kyle or a third-party on the rare occasion that they teamed up had lost, Kenny was the return to normalcy. They watched TV. They played basketball. They went to the movies.

And now apparently, they went out for dinner.

“Don’t sugar-coat it dude,” Cartman snorted, turning his chair so he could look at both of them face on, “Kyle’s worried you’ve been making friends with pedos ‘cause we haven’t been paying enough attention to you lately.”

“Cartman!”

Kenny just laughed, twisting his neck back to Kyle. 

“Seriously?”

Kyle dropped his growl to look at Kenny. He seemed conflicted.

“Well, no, not exactly,” he said, “we’re just worried is all. We’ve been hearing things-”

He should’ve known.

“You don’t have to wine and dine me to find out if I’m getting laid Kyle.”

“See I told you dude.”

“Shut up fatass.” By now it was automatic. Kyle didn’t even look away when he threw the scrap of paper at him. He stayed trained on Kenny, and the concern rubbed at him like sandpaper. “Jesus, Ken. You aren’t really are you? He’s not forcing you or anything is he?”

His friends exchanged a glance when Kenny started to chuckle. They couldn’t possibly know how funny the idea of Stan forcing anyone to do anything was. Turning his face into the crook of his elbow, Kenny kept the smile.

“No way dude. Honestly, we just hang out.” Kenny could feel it happening again; his expression softened anytime he thought of the man. He could tell that his friends had noticed from the looks on their faces. Shrugging, Kenny tried to brush it off with nonchalance. “What can I say? I just like the guy.”

“But he’s thirty.”

“Twenty-nine.”

“That’s the same fucking thing.”     

“No it’s not,” Kenny insisted. It was important to him that it wasn’t. 

Cartman, on the other hand, had already tired of the conversation. Turning back to his desk, he started doodling on the surface. Probably another cartoon of Kyle sucking his own dick.

“Ugh whatever dude. So, he’s crushing on some old guy. If all they’re doing is swapping tampons and braiding each other’s hair who gives a crap?”

Kenny could tell from the way Kyle closed his eyes, praying for patience that this was a conversation they’d had without him before too.

“Look, Kenny. Just be careful ok? That guy could be trouble.”

“Trouble? You don’t know anything about him.”

Again, he could only smile, but Kyle looked more concerned.

“Well yeah, but a guy like that-”

“Your boyfriend’s a loser dude,” Cartman cut in, rolling his eyes, “that’s what he’s trying to say.”

Kenny’s mood dropped instantly. Cartman’s words were harsh, but he thought that everyone was a loser. What hurt more was the look in Kyle’s eyes, that silent agreement that he was too much of a coward to word. Any and all thoughts of entertaining his friend’s left him. Suddenly he didn’t feel like much at all let alone math or history or whatever the fuck they were having next. With a scrape of his chair, Kenny got to his feet.  

“Screw this. I’m outta here. See you guys later.”

Only Kyle called after him.

“Wait, Kenny! What about class?”

“Shove it up your ass.”

 No one stopped him when he left campus despite him passing several teachers along the way. The administration of South Park High had given up on him years ago. He’d been written off. Just another waste of space like his deadbeat father.

Kenny frowned at the floor as he walked. He’d promised his brother he’d stop doing this. Kevin, wrench in hand, had all but threatened to beat him half to death and drag him back to school the last time he’d caught him ditching. It had been easy to agree then, blinded by a passion he hadn’t seen in his brother in years, but it was harder when he was actually there being forced to memorise Shakespeare everyone forgot the instant they graduated. Kenny had seen Hamlet already, years ago in Canada. More importantly, he’d seen the faces of the audience around him. No one had given a flying fuck. In the classroom filled with its ‘ _verily’s_ and _‘forsooth’s,_ those faces outnumbered his brother’s in his head and burned him away like candle wax.

Kenny didn’t know where he would go once this was over. He had no designs on his life other than to live. The where, when, and how of it didn’t seem important. That same thought controlled him now. Seizing his feet, it carried him to the outskirts of town, past the stores and the church to where the trees thickened, and the roots of mountains unsettled the ground. South Park was in a basin. The rest of the town was relatively flat, but here towards its edges, the ground moved in rolling waves, steadily rising and falling across the cemetery.

It was another non-descript day, the kind where the clouds hung thick and low like a quilt. The snow didn’t fall, but it was piled around the streets in piles of ice and rock. The path was clearer in the daylight. Kenny recognised shapes he’d gone by in the dark, seeing them for what they were. He passed the bench under the oak tree, went through the thicket of pines, around the lake. His fingers traced the smooth marble of whatever grave was nearest. A few were aged and forgotten, but he recognised a couple staples on his way: Valmers, Tuckers, McCormicks. He touched their surfaces and moved along.

Kenny couldn’t find Stan in the cemetery, so he headed for the house. Climbing the steps to the porch, he could hear movement inside. Without hesitating, he knocked on the door. It swung open within seconds.

The man before him was a giant. Kenny knew he was short, but this guy beat even his tallest friends by about two heads. The shadows under his eyes outlived Stan’s by several decades, and he’d developed habits even smellier than him. Like Stan, he lived in the dirt. That was clear from the scratches and scars miring the filthy hand with which he now brought a crooked cigarette to his lips. The man studied him with the kind of passive interest afforded to a screaming infant. Inhaling deeply, he spoke through a cloud of smoke.

“So this is the kid.” The French accent enveloped his every word just as the smoke did his lungs.

“Is Stan here?”

“What’s it to you?”

And Kenny just was in no kind of mood for this. He slipped into offence almost instantly. Crossing his arms, Kenny sighed dramatically and said, “I’ve come to incriminate him some more. It’s just such a rush you know.”

The man wasn’t impressed. This time when he exhaled smoke into Kenny’s face, it was on purpose.

“Don’t try to scandalise me, boy. The age of consent _en France_ is fifteen.”

Of course it was.

“Christ, you’re even bigger hicks than we are,” Pushing at the doorway, he tried to brush the man aside. “Is he here or not?”

The man didn’t budge. Slamming a hand across the frame, he barred Kenny’s entrance and loomed over him with a sneer.

“Now is not a good time,” he said lowly and threateningly, “run back to school little boy.”

Kenny bristled. He’d never taken well to being threatened, explicitly, implicitly or otherwise.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business _dude_ ,” he said. Kenny threw all the disdain he could muster into that final word. It wasn’t lost on the man before him.

“Listen here, brat you-”

“Christophe?”

It was weak, but Kenny heard it all the same. Stan’s voice carried in threads through the crack in bathroom door, followed by vicious retching. The man, Christophe, looked conflicted for a moment, but when the gagging grew wetter with vomit, he cast one final withering look to Kenny before leaving him for the bathroom.

Kenny followed immediately, catching the door between his hands. Inside the house smelled sour, the scent of bile carrying through the gaps in the bathroom door. When Kenny creaked over the threshold, he received a warning look from the Frenchman but chose to ignore it.

“Stan?”

He was on the floor, crouched over the toilet. Christophe was on his haunches at his side, rubbing his back with dutiful reluctance. At his voice, the gravedigger looked up. Kenny had never seen him look so terrible. Stan withered and etiolated like a dying plant. His whole face seemed to droop, haggard from the stress of hanging on too long. He hadn’t slept in hours. His black hair was in clumps. The strands around his face thick with the spray of vomit. His lips were dry and cracked from countless minutes of retching.

Kenny stopped immediately. He forgot himself.

But Stan cursed at the sight of him and violently turned his head away.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” he hissed to Christophe, and the ire in it made Kenny’s chest hurt.

He pressed through it.

“Stan what can I do? Let me help.”

But Stan could hardly bear to look at him. Rubbing a stained sleeve across his chin, he waved him away dismissively.

“Go back to school Kenny.”

People needed to stop telling him what to do. With new resolve, Kenny came into the bathroom, pushing aside the Frenchman who clearly didn’t have a nurturing bone in his body.

“How long has he been like this?” he asked, rubbing his hand over Stan’s back in calming circles. Christophe only shrugged.

“I don’t know. I only got here now.”

Kenny kept up his movements with practised ease. He had done this kind of thing for years.

“Stan, have you eaten? We need to get some water in you.”

The gravedigger was still hung over the toilet. He’d been grumbling under his breath since Kenny walked in, but under his ministrations he came to life.

“Get out of here Ken.”

“Stan, you need to-“

“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT!”

The sudden push blindsided him. It didn’t hurt, but it sent him sprawling across the floor. His back hit the other wall with a loud thud. Above his head, the butterflies rattled in their cases upon impact. It addled him, but it didn’t hurt. Still, he couldn’t hide the hurt from his face when he looked at Stan. It made everything worse. The guilt bled into both of them, instant and venomous.

“ _Shit_ … Ken…Fuck.” Stan reached out, but he dropped his hand before they were anyway near to touching. Second-guessing himself, he ran it tensely through his matted hair. “Look please… just go. We’ll talk later.”

Kenny was slow to respond and sluggish in his movements, but he gathered himself all the same. He knew when he wasn’t wanted. Rubbing a hand over his face, he let the mask slip into place and got to his feet.

“Whatever you want man.”

Kenny’s cheeks flushed in shame. He didn’t look at Christophe, too embarrassed to face him. Silently and pathetically, he walked out the door. He stood in the quiet of the hallway for a while, listening to the sounds of retching within until he heard the toilet flush. The whole house groaned as water rushed through the pipes. It drowned out the low murmurs of the men inside.

It was enough to get Kenny to move. He crossed to the front door, running his palm over the cool metal of the door handle. He didn’t want to stay and interfere any longer. His body felt like it was squeezing itself, twisting and constraining in punishment. He’d been so self-centred, so stupidly naïve. Kenny had fallen into his own trap. He’d let himself believe he was all Stan had, all because he had never seen him with other people, all because he wanted to.

“He means well.”

Kenny tightened his grip on the handle, refusing to jump at the voice. Christophe had slipped into the hallway. Easing the door closed behind himself, he leaned against it with folded arms. Kenny frowned.

“ _He_ needs help,” he corrected, still not looking up. He heard the click of Christophe’s lighter as nimble fingers lifted a cigarette to his lips. Gritting his teeth, Kenny continued, “I’m not just gonna ignore him. You think I can’t deal with this?”

He got a chuckle in reply for his efforts.

“Non, I think you don’t need to. It is why I am here. _You_ are not his caretaker.”

“But I’m his…”

“What?” Christophe cut in with a provocative nod of his head “You are what?”

Kenny grimaced. He didn’t know if it was the accent or intentional, but the mocking sound tore at his already frayed nerves until they unravelled.

“I’m his friend.” It sounded weak and pathetic to his ears. Christophe detected his insecurity with the ease of a shark finding blood in the water. Snorting derisively, he exhaled, and the smoke tumbled from him, tangling into his cruel words.

“You barely know him.”

Kenny ached, but more than that, he chafed. The irritation itched at him.

“I can still care about him,” he said tartly. Christophe only shrugged.

“Boh yes, you can, but this is not about you,” he said, “Stan needs to be in control of his own self.”

“I wouldn’t have it otherwise.”

Rolling his eyes, Christophe cursed under his breath and muttered “ _Merde_ what does find these do-goody pussies?”

If Kenny was feeling like less of a pussy in that moment, he may have corrected him. As it was, he just ignored him and said, “I’m not trying to fix him.”

“You should compare notes with his wife. She was a liar too.” Something about the look on Kenny’s face must have made Christophe take pity on him, because with an unnecessarily dramatic sigh, he rolled back his shoulders and said, “look, you need to think how it must feel. Stan is a man.”

“ _I’m_ a man dude.”

“No you are a boy.”

“God damn, you’re a dick.”

“God? He will not help you. He is the biggest lying bitch of them all.” He crowded him, got in Kenny’s face until he recoiled at the smell and the smoke. “Go ahead and look to your merciful faggot for answers. He will give you none. Just like he gave me none when my mother crushed sleeping pills into my cereal when I was a child.”

…

“Right.”

It was the last he said. With a final drag from his burnt-out cigarette, Christophe pushed Kenny out the door. He slammed it shut behind him, throwing the cigarette out over Kenny’s shoulder.  

Kenny stared at the green paint as if he could peel it off by will alone. He had been thoroughly shut out. Only now with the clarity of fresh air did he have the lucidity to turn it over in his head. He knew Stan drank. That was nothing new, but never before had Kenny seen him this bad. The realisation that it may be his doing cut like a shower of glass. It was ice-cold in his veins. Countless regrets clattered through his mind like rocks in a garbage disposal. He turned them over and over in his head, but there was nothing he could do. Stan had shut him out.

Cheeks red with shame and trying to ignore how it hurt, Kenny walked away from the cabin. It would be a while before he could bring himself to go back.

 

.

 

Five years before he finished high school, Stan’s uncle Jimbo Kern went out to his garden shed, drank a fifth of vodka, and shot himself in the head with his old 1970’s Colt .45.

Stan remembered the clouds at his funeral: long, fragile, wispy things that stretched across the sky like railway tracks. He remembered being uncomfortable in his suit, pulling at the collar whenever his mom wasn’t around to slap his hands away. It had been an unusually hot spring, and the ground had crumbled under their feet like pastry.

His parents didn’t explain to him how it happened. _‘An accident’_ , they’d said, but Shelly told him the night before in the bathroom when he’d tried to snatch the toothpaste. She was the only one in the family who had never believed he needed protecting.

There hadn’t been many people there. Jimbo’s friend Ned had passed away a few years earlier, and without him, all that remained were a few drinking buddies and army vets. The Marshs were his only family.

He was buried on the other side of the graveyard at the foot of the mountain beneath the silver shade of birch trees. In the summer, the sun cast light through the leaves and danced white across the polished marble.

Stan still thought about it sometimes when he ambled past. He wondered what came of the gun; if his parents had thrown it away, if they’d sold it. He wondered about the vodka, and his Uncle Jimbo’s last thoughts would have been alone in that shed with the gun heavy in his hands.

Stan didn’t plan on copying him, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t understand. On dark nights, when the wind rattled his windows, and the coyotes howled in the mountains, Stan could hear the endless whispers of silence and he would drown them out with the radio.

 

.

 

It had been a few months since Kenny had seen the inside of the guidance councillor’s office. He passed it near every day, but since the last one had his nervous breakdown, the school had outsourced the job to a specialist, some sleek therapist from Denver.

Kenny had heard about her in flutters in the hallways. In a matter of hours, she had whipped the broken, disastrous mess of files from the previous councillor into shape. She’d earmarked the ‘high-risk kids’, all the classic ones like Eric Cartman, Butters Stotch, Heidi Turner, the goth kids, the Broflovski boys (younger and older), and even Kenny himself. Their files were packed away in her desk, two drawers down in alphabetical order. Kenny knew because ever since she first arrived, she’d been calling them in one by one. Eric had told him about how with kind eyes she’d told him her doors were always open if he wanted to talk. Cartman told her to suck his balls. He had not been back since.

Now it seemed it was Kenny’s turn. The office hadn’t changed much. The position was only temporary after all, but she had allowed life back into the room with plants, new blinds and the smallest trinkets here or there. She was by no means a miracle worker, but she’d done her homework that was for sure. They didn’t sit with the desk between them. The councillor ushered him right to the sitting area in the corner. When he sat, she handed him a glass of water and smiled.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Kenny.”

Kenny accepted it, playfully twirling the drink in his hand like an aged scotch in a spy movie.

“I’m just honoured you thought of me Ms…” he glanced around for her name tag on the desk, but she got in first.

“Please call me Wendy.”

Wendy had the perfect face for the job. Her face and cheeks reminded Kenny of apples, dusty and pink along their rounded edges. Her expression was soft as darned wool, but her eyes were sharp. Dramatic and angular, they drank him in. They weren’t like Stan, where his pupils like gaping black holes swallowed him whole. Wendy had no pull. Her eyes searched without prying.

She looked about Stan’s age. When she smiled, she looked younger. Pretty but not threatening, he could see why the girls loved her. She slipped into the big sister role seamlessly. Slim and pale as she was, he could see why the boys loved her too.

Kenny’s lips curved into a coy smile as he leaned forward and said, “it’s nice to meet you Wendy.”

It never hurt to test the waters with beautiful, older women. In fact, they tended to find him charming. He had Cartman’s mother eating out the palm of his hands.

With Wendy, they rolled off her in rivulets of oil on water. She stayed resting forward on her knees.

“Do you know why I called you in today?”

Kenny leaned back into the chair and away from her. He’d seen enough psychiatrists in his time to know the drill.

“Well, I can only assume it’s to commend me on my truly excellent grades and attendance record,” he said flippantly, “or is it just because I’m cute?”

Kenny winked. It didn’t work either. Privately, he wondered if she’d been warned about him.

“I was actually wondering if we could chat a little about your relationships outside school.”

Leaning his face into his palm, Kenny resisted the sigh.

“There’s no need to be shy Wendy. Just say what you gotta say.”

Wendy seemed to appreciate the efficiency. Folding her fingers in her lap, she cut to the chase.

“Some staff have been expressing concern.”

“Never too late to try something new”

“Do you not feel your needs are met by the staff here?”

“I’m fine.”

He said it too fast. Wendy recognised it for what it was: a reflex rather than an answer. Something in her stance changed. It was time to get serious. Kenny had seen the same from the previous councillor when he’d thought he’d found a thread to pull at. That guy had always take his glasses off at this point, so he could look Kenny directly in the eye (or try at least, he really had been quite blind). Wendy refolded her legs. She re-clasped her fingers. She too looked him directly in the eye.

“Kenny, I want you to know that I run things differently than Mr. Sampson. I’m not interested in looking out for the school. I’m here to work with you. It’s the responsibility of the adults in your life to look out for you. I assure you no one is trying to accuse you of anything. I’m just trying to make sure that you aren’t doing anything that will harm you in the long run.”

He’d called it. It didn’t work, but the sudden sincerity seemed so much realer from her than it had from the other guy. However, constantly defending himself was already getting old.

Wendy continued.

“Even if your relationship with Mr. Marsh isn’t physical, there are still several things you ought to consider. He has a few demons of his own.”

Now that was unexpected. Stopping his fingers at his neck, Kenny eyed her sceptically.

“You know him then?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

She was smiling. Kenny allowed her to think she was getting somewhere.

“You’ve seen him?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’ll save us a lot of time then.” Leaning back in the chair, Kenny smirked piteously, “I would explain what it’s like to fuck a man too, but I think we both know what that’s like.”

Wendy didn’t even flinch.

“Are you trying to feel me out Kenny?” She cut him off before he could reply, “I’m new here. It’s understandable that you would want to test boundaries.” Wendy set her notebook aside. For the second time, her stance changed. When she looked at him, she was barbed wire. A more sensible man would think twice before taking her on. “But don’t get cute with me brat.”

Kenny grinned. The look in her eyes thrilled him.

_Now_ they were getting somewhere.

The look sparked something in him. Frank honesty made him want to give her something in return: what she needed to finally leave him alone. Kenny ran a hand through the hair over his face. Sweeping it away from his forehead, he said, “All we do is eat sandwiches.” Kenny shrugged. “He makes a mean grilled cheese.”

He couldn’t tell if her surprise was genuine, but she was certainly pleased to hear it. She nodded in sincere understanding, and Kenny knew she believed him. Something in the room eased at their words.

“Stan’s your friend.”

To Kenny it was the truth, but it was strange to hear it anyway. His name sounded familiar from her lips in a way it didn’t from the others.

“Yes.”

“Tell me Kenny, what are you getting out of this friendship?”

“I…” Kenny faltered. He found himself repeating his words. “Christ I just _like_ the guy. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Not at all,” Wendy replied, “but what about Mr. Marsh?”

“What about him?”

“What does Mr. Marsh get out of this friendship? It’s important that you ask yourself what he’s expecting of you.”  

He didn’t miss the correction but chose not to address it. The other question was much closer to the bone, much more like what Christophe had told him.

“Nothing I don’t think.” It pained him to admit it. “I used to think maybe he was lonely, but…”

_…maybe he’s just too kind to tell you to get lost._

Kenny didn’t say it out loud, wouldn’t leave himself exposed like that. But his hand found the spot on his chest he’d been pushed. Stan _had_ told him to fuck off, loudly and clearly. Kenny had just never listened before. He’d fallen into his own trap. Kenny had believed he was all Stan had purely because he wanted to, but he had been wrong.

All at once, he shut down.

“Look he’s not sleeping with me. I’ve not fallen victim to some graveyard pedo. Are we done here?”

Done or not, Kenny got to his feet. Wendy made no move to stop him but merely followed his movements in controlled silence. When she spoke she sounded just as kind. There was no pity or condescension in her tone. Kenny chose to find it anyway. 

“Kenny, I understand this situation more than you think I do. I won’t push you to talk to me but know that you can.”

“Sure.”

He focused on the squeak of his heel as he crossed the floor. He felt rancid, soured by all their words in his head. Kenny had lived more lifetimes than all of them combined, yet here he was being lectured. That happened. The bubble had popped, and people saw what they wanted to. It couldn’t be helped. Even his friends couldn’t be helped, but Wendy and Christophe were in Stan’s orbit. They were making him doubt himself, and it left a foul taste in his mouth.

Kenny left the office. He crossed the hall. He couldn’t breath again until he was out in the cold.

He continued breathing right up until the flagpole crashed down upon him.

 

.

 

There was a something waiting for Kenny at his grave when he woke.  It was under his head, digging uncomfortable into his neck. Blinking the white lights from his eyes, it took a moment for Kenny to understand what had happened. As always, the thought crossed his mind that he should keep track this time. That perhaps he should have a record of all these deaths so it was real to him. However, a second later the thought slipped away, just as it always did.

He focused on the rim of a plate poking his head. He could smell something sweet, almost sickly. Blinking again to ground himself, the sky came into view. It was late-afternoon. Kenny could only have been dead for a few hours. There was a pot against his head. Kenny titled towards it. Stalks shot upright from the soil, fanning at the base in delicate green paddles. Purple bells scattered the plant like clusters of stars. The sweet scent came over him.

A little flustered, Kenny sat up to stare at the flowers. Every now and then, when his deaths lasted a little longer, his parents would arbitrarily arrange a funeral. There would be gifts and flowers and all the tell-tale signs of a premature death. However, these were quickly lost to the elements or other supernatural forces. In the thirteen years his grave had stood there, nobody had ever left him anything once he was buried. While his neighbours collected lilies and grew daffodils or tulips in the spring, Kenny’s grave stood bare.

He pinched at the petals. They were soft as velvet, and the colour of a thunderstorm. There was only one person who could have left them for him. Cupping a hand to his face, Kenny bit into his palm. He suddenly felt like crying.

He got to his feet before he could lose it entirely. With his orange coat and his purple flowers, Kenny crossed the cemetery. It took him about half an hour to find Stan. He was in a part of the cemetery Kenny had never been before. Where the rest of the grounds sprouted hard oak and pines, this area was silver with winter-bare birch trees. The snow had been shovelled into piles at their feet, and the ground was hard and dry where he walked.

Stan was bent over a grave. Kenny watched him place a bouquet of white lilies at its stoop. It was only as he righted himself that the name came into view: Jimbo Kern. A single outlier in a row of Marshes. This was Stan’s family.

Kenny slowed to a halt, not wanting to disturb. Stan noticed him anyway, turning from the tombstone to Kenny. His expression barely changed, but with a nod he gave Kenny quiet permission to join him. Kenny walked with the slow gait of a condemned man. It seemed to take hours to reach him. Even so, with all the time in the world, Kenny did not know what to say when he stood at Stan’s side.

So, he said nothing. He let Stan go first.

“He was my mother’s brother,” he said, “shot himself in the head when I was thirteen.” Still Kenny didn’t speak, trying to convey everything he felt seemed impossible. Stan’s eyes stayed fixed on the grave as if he could find answers in the gaps of the letters. Quietly, Kenny followed his lead.

“Have you ever been shot in the head?”

Kenny stirred. He spoke with barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“What’s it like?”

He tightened his grip on the flowers. Stan’s hands hung heavily at his sides. He wanted to reach out and take one, but Christophe and Wendy and Stan and Kenny held him back. Biting his lip, he tried to be honest.

“The shot kinda numbs you at first. Sometimes it bleeds a lot, sometimes it doesn’t, but I never feel it until it’s on my face. Then it’s like when it first starts raining. You feel the drops, but it takes a second to figure out what it is. Usually my last thought is like ‘ah I’ve been shot’. You die pretty fast after that.” Kenny shuffled uncomfortably. He didn’t look away from the flowers. “Sometimes I don’t die right away though. Then it hurts more than you can ever imagine. Every heartbeat pushes more blood to your head, but it has nowhere to go, so you just bleed and bleed, and you can’t see, and it feels like your skull is shattered, but even that isn’t enough. At times like that, I always wish to die just to make it stop.”

He trailed off weakly. Kenny’s knuckles were tense. The veins in his hands popped up, and his breath grew shallow. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think on it. Kenny had been shot countless times. It didn’t pain him to remember it. It pained him to know that it would happen again.

But then his eyes flew open when he felt warm hands on his. Stan’s fingers closed over his around the pot. They were rough from labour and dry from winter, but Stan blew the tenseness out of him all the same with small soothing rubs of his thumbs. Disbelievingly, Kenny looked up at him. Stan, like him, had been watching the flowers, but at the fluttering of Kenny’s eyelashes, he looked up and met his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured softly, and Kenny forgave him instantly. They stood in silence. Stan’s eyes dropped to the flowers once more. “Hyacinths. The lady in the shop recommended them. I told her I’d wronged a friend. Do you like them?”

Kenny’s stomach flipped.

“I love them.” He couldn’t help the way his breath hitched on the word. Stan didn’t ignore it either. He dropped his hands, but he didn’t step away. He stayed in Kenny’s orbit, his voice low and intimate.

“I’m sorry I was a dick to you Ken. I just… I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“I get it.” And he really did. Kenny thought of the thunderstorm. Him as his most ugly, kneeling in a puddle, screaming so hard he could cough up a lung. He tried to imagine Stan seeing that but recoiled from the thought in shame.

Kenny understood it, accepted it, but there was one thing he needed to say. Straightening his back, he frowned, forcing Stan to look his way. “ _Never_ hit me again.”

Stan didn’t flinch. He faced his wrongs head-on and nodded solemnly.

“I promise.”    

Kenny knew he meant it. In the shade of those branches, the two of them stood. Kenny stared at the grave as he prayed for a man he’d never met. Stan’s arm was warm at his side. Quietly, they watched the sun set over lily and marble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the language of flowers, purple Hyacinths are “to ask for forgiveness”. If you want some random classics facts. Hyakinthos who the Hyacinth was named after actually did die of a head wound. According to myth, Apollo and Zephyr had been fighting over his affections and when he was out playing discus with Apollo, Zephyr blew a strong gust of wind that sent the disk flying into Hyakinthos’ skull and killed him. Ovid says that in his grief, Apollo made the flowers which he then named after the beautiful youth. 
> 
> White lilies represent the restoration of innocence after death.
> 
> I hope you liked it. Even if I am a liar and this is going to be three parts. Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

 

When Kenny McCormick was seven or eight years old, when his friends got smartphones and tablets, he had an MP3 player. It cost him two Chinpokomon and the little money left in his piggybank. Cartman had laughed at him for buying something so retro, but Kenny didn’t care. It had been worth every cent.

It wasn’t like the beat-up phone Kenny had now. The player barely had space for thirty tracks. His family didn’t have a computer with which to load his own songs, but the kid he got it from hadn’t wiped the memory. He’d long forgotten her name by now, but it had belonged to her elder brother. All of his songs had still been there.

Day in, day out for six weeks, Kenny listened to nothing else. He listened until he knew every song. He picked at the artists and their instruments. He memorised their lyrics. From there he tried to form an image, distil a man from a single playlist. Kenny would listen to it in the car, on the bus, and in his bedroom at night when the fighting began. He would listen until he was swimming in it, until the screams were nothing more than just another note in the orchestra. ‘ _Ah_ ,’ he would think. _‘That’s what music is for’_. The words still came to him now- the resume of a man- when he found himself humming out of the blue.

He knew what happened to the MP3 player. It disappeared into the ether along with a broken set of crayons and a scribbled note from Kyle the morning his ankles got tangled in the train tracks. Kenny remembered the ear buds falling out as he struggled to get away. He remembered his breathing wet and heavy against his hood; the blaring horn of the train; words played cruelly in his ears like a death knell _…’_ _Just the old blood rising up through the wooden floor again’…_ ‘ _Just the old love asking for more again’…_

The impact hadn’t killed him, but the roll of steel tires crushing his skull had quickly done the trick.

 

.

 

Within a few weeks, Kenny started going to Stan’s house again. He hadn’t been to the cemetery on his own two feet since the incident, but when Death brought him, Stan was there smelling of malt liquor and winter pine.

There was little do to in a graveyard in February. As the animals slept in their burrows, the ground turned solid and flowers died. Stan took to wandering the yard like his tenants with only twittering robins for company. Kenny would see him then, shovelling snow or clipping back Winter Jasmine. He would approach, and with their breath like burning fuel in the air he would tell Stan how he died, and so routine returned. Stan began inviting him for coffee. It was tentative at first. Neither of them was fully able to ignore the subtle key change between them steady and irreversible as time. But slowly they grew use to each other once more.

They became comfortable, others would say brazen. People would see them at times, sometimes visitors, sometimes funerals, but Stan bore their whispers with a practised ease. Kenny came to realise that unlike himself, Stan was used to the highs and lows of scrutiny, furthermore, he’d learned not to care. He knew how to wait things out.

For Kenny, things were different. It wasn’t that he cared what people thought of him. Only that it had never been a problem before. He wasn’t weathered like Stan. He jerked and balked uncomfortably when people approached him. He was the victim of the narrative, but it wasn’t a cloth he knew to wear or discard. He worried that he added fuel to the fire. He worried it drove Stan to drink, but in reality, when people would see them on the bench by the oak tree or wandering the path to the iron gates, Stan paid them no more attention than he did the passing graves. So with Stan as his anchor, Kenny began to relax.

Only when Kenny was at school did he keep his guard up entirely. He took to ducking the councillor’s office, the staff room, the principal’s. As far as he was concerned, they already knew more than they needed to. However, sometimes he still got caught. A teacher would grab him after class or catch him in the halls. Whenever they did, they would always say the same thing: “Speak to Wendy. She knows more about this than any of us.”

It didn’t take Kenny long to put it together. He arranged the puzzle and tucked it away safely in his pocket where it burned a hole through the fabric. He wasn’t able to sit on it long. It spilled out of him one morning, splashing like water onto Stan’s floor.

“I met your ex-wife by the way.”

Stan halted. His hands stopped moving with the coffee filter halfway to its nest. They were in the kitchen. Kenny was leaning on his forearms, watching a fly crawl undisturbed along the counter top. Stan was stood across the island. There were two matched cups between them, each white as pearl with a sapphire dragonfly. Kenny turned the handles out to face the same way.

 “Wendy?”

Kenny nodded. Stan quickly recovered and returned to his work. But something was different. It was the first time either of them had acknowledged her existence or the presence of anything beyond the walls of the graveyard.

“She’s pretty,” Kenny said, tracing a finger down the curve of a cup handle.

Stan chuckled before he replied, “she’s a lot more than that.”

“So why’d you break up?”

“I’m a lot less.”

“Oh come on.”

But Stan was still smiling. Flicking the switch on the coffee maker, he moved back to the island, folding himself over across from Kenny. It was a gentle smile, accepting. Stan was holding no grudges over his marriage. If he ever had, they’d faded years ago.

“Wendy had bigger plans than South Park. I didn’t,” he said with a shrug, “it probably seems silly to you, but it’s just one of those things. You’ll get it when-”

“When I’m older?” Kenny interrupted, raising a challenging eyebrow, but it only seemed to amuse Stan more. Pressing his fingers to his lips as if to silence himself, he bowed to him apologetically.

“It’s only Denver. Seems to me you could’ve made it work if you really wanted to.”

Lowering his gaze to the cups, Stan followed his movements along the bumpy tail of the dragonfly.

“I guess we didn’t.”

Kenny watched him, watched the mid-morning sun bring forth the pink from his lips and cheeks, watched it bring out the grey in his eyes. This man whose temper waxed and waned like the moon, who’d probably never had a good hair day in his life, who comforted him, who let him in without judgement for no reason at all. In that moment, Kenny couldn’t fathom not fighting for him.

But biting at his nail, all he managed was a faint echo of Stan’s words.

“Guess not.”

They lulled into silence. The coffee machine clicked off behind him. Stan turned to get the pot, pouring them two cups of black. He didn’t keep milk in the house. No point when it spoiled so quickly. Kenny didn’t mind. It tasted bitter either way.

The space between them was warm and comfortable, but their conversation still hung in the air. It was hard to admit to himself that the feeling building within him was irritation. Drawing fingers over the dragonfly, Kenny couldn’t help but wonder: what was worth fighting for if not a marriage? Certainly not a tenuous friendship such as theirs.

He spoke over his thoughts. Needing to fill the gap, he said the first thing that came to mind.  

“So how do you know Christophe?”

Stan leaned over the counter again. Like this, there was barely any space between them.

“His dad was the last groundkeeper.”

“Not Mr. Herb.”

“Mr. Herb?”

“The friendly old guy whose life you’ve taken over.”

“Oh… right,” Stan said, startled into a smile. A moment later his thoughts returned to it. Sending Kenny an incredulous look, he said, “Mr. Herb is the best you could come up with?”

“Shut up. I spend half my time literally brain-dead,” Kenny shot back around Stan’s laughter. “And now you’ve gone and ruined my image of the friendly neighbourhood botanist. Green Sandy Claus doesn’t work if he’s a surly Frenchman.”

“You’re thinking of his mom.”

“Santa’s mom was a surly Frenchman?”

“Half right. Christophe’s. He grew up with her.” Stan was laughing properly now, and it was just the most wonderful thing. “Mr. Gagnon was Canadian actually, and a divorcee. Otherwise that description was pretty spot on.”

“I knew a guy that fucked up had to be a product of divorce. It’s always the parents.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Stan murmured, the coffee rippled at his lips. “Christophe’s something alright. Guy loves dirt more than I do. We used to call him the Mole.”

“He’s a grave digger too?”

“He’s a contractor,” Stan said, glancing away, “I’ve known him forever though.”

“Is he the guy? The one you were talking about before who died?”

Stan looked at him properly now. Pulling the mug away from his lips, he set it to the counter with a mild click.

“When we were eight, Christophe and me tried to break into a USO show. We wanted to bust out our favourite TV stars. Don’t know if you ever heard about it, but we were pretty close to going to war with Canada back then over these guys Terrence and Philip.”

Kenny’s mouth dropped in surprise.

“Terrence and Phillip? Dude I _loved_ them. They were like my childhood.” Something else occurred to him. “Wait, La Resistance. That was you guys? Holy crap dude, you know they talk about you in Behind the Blow?”

Stan shuffled awkwardly at the awe in his voice.

“Yep, me, Christophe and this British dude called Gregory. Wendy was there too actually. We busted them out and snuck them back across the border.” Kenny whistled lowly. It made Stan chuckle at first, but the smile dropped as he brought the mug back to his lips. He took another sip, and Kenny followed it through the bob of his Adam’s apple. When the cup came back down, Stan’s mood had changed. “There weren’t so many of us though. When we tried to release them, Christophe got mauled to death by guard dogs. I still remember it now, he died in my arms.”

Kenny held his breath.

“Shit,” he said. Stan only nodded. They sipped their coffee through the silence until Stan continued.

“I guess it was lucky though because apparently while he was down there he talked Satan out of coming up and causing hell on earth or some shit. Christophe was never great with the details, but apparently in return for some grade A relationship advice, Satan brought him back to life.” Stan finished. Tapping his fingers on the counter, he looked to Kenny sheepishly. “It sounds crazy I know.”

Kenny only smiled.

“Not at all,” he replied. “We’ve all met the guy. Satan’s love life is a mess.”

 “Christophe’s is no better. Fucking married men. We’re lucky to have him at all,” Stan snorted. “I guess we’ve all got our demons. Even the Devil.” 

He said it with a shrug. Even to him the words didn’t hit home. Kenny hummed his agreement with the mug to his lips. He watched Stan through downcast eyes, and realised it was true. Good or bad at love, none of them were getting to heaven. Among the quiet and the morning and the scratching of his blunt fingernails on countertops, Kenny’s anger took root again. In a brief lapse of control, he thought one look from Stan would keep it at bay, but the look never came.

 

.

 

She caught him eventually while he was having a smoke around back during history class. It should have meant detention for him, but Wendy only smiled like she’d bumped into an old friend at the grocery store. She didn’t try to lure him to her office -she was smarter than that – but dropped her jacket on the snowy steps and took a seat. Kenny kept a cautious distance from her, eying her like a caged animal. She didn’t ask him to put out the cigarette. She didn’t demand he go back to class. Wendy just kept smiling and chatting.

He’d clocked her therapist voice from day one, but Wendy’s voice was soothing even when she wasn’t putting it on. When there finally was a lull in the conversation, Kenny brought up what had been bothering him since he’d stormed out her office all those weeks ago.

“Thanks for the warning by the way.”

She’d been waiting for him to bring it up. Crossing her arms in her lap, Wendy leaned forward in what Kenny was quickly realising was her professional stance.

“This is about Stan.”

A statement so blasé it grated his nerves.  

“Yeah it’s about Stan. That’s one hell of a conflict of interest you got there.”

“I’m here for you, Kenny, not for Stan. I chose not to disclose our relationship because it wasn’t pertinent.”

“Principal Ford literally hired you to find out if your ex-husband’s a sexual predator,” he said incredulously. “I sit in your office and talk about this guy for thirty minutes and you don’t think it’s ‘pertinent’ that you used to be _married?”_ Pulling a hand from his pockets, Kenny raked it over his face. “Seriously, this isn’t even a little weird for you?” 

Wendy didn’t even twitch. Turning her head to follow Kenny’s movements she said, “Principal Ford hired me because I’m good at what I do.” She shifted her weight and brought her arms around herself to keep warm. “ _Very_ good even, but only if you work with me. Knowing Stan, only helped me understand the situation better.”

“You don’t know shit about our situation.”

He didn’t try to assert that she knew nothing of Stan either no matter how much he wanted to. They had grown up together. She probably knew more than Kenny ever would. He couldn’t keep that thought from his face. Wendy saw it, processed it. Her eyes softened in understanding. Kenny was glad to have the excuse of a cigarette to look away.

“Kenny, do you resent me for leaving Stan?”

What a question to ask. Shuffling in the sludge and dirt, Kenny inhaled like he was suffocating. He didn’t look at her.

“I don’t blame you for leaving him,” he said through gritted teeth and smoke. “I’ve met the guy. He’s no dreamboat.” Staring out to the football field, Kenny threw out a term he’d heard tossed about before. “Kid’s got demons.”

Wendy seemed surprised to hear it, for a second her professionality dropped and there was just a hint of an appreciative smile. Kenny realised that all those times she’d pretended to break character had been fake. She’d had him completely fooled, but for the first time, he’d caught her off-guard.

Just as quickly, the mask slipped back into place. 

“You don’t have to blame me to resent me.”

The cigarette bent and broke beneath his grip. He dropped it to his feet with a sigh, grinding it under his worn-out boot.

“Alright sure, maybe I wanted someone to stay with him. I’m not saying it had to be you.”

“Do you want it to be you?”

“Maybe… yes… I don’t know.”

Kenny didn’t know why he was talking. She looked at him with real empathy and afforded him a morsel of truth.

“Stan and I were never going to work as we were. I wanted to be his partner and his therapist, but I couldn’t be both,” Wendy said. “And neither can you.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“And what about these demons you mentioned?”

Kenny shoved his hands in his pockets and eyed her apprehensively.

“Look I don’t have a Messiah complex or a compulsion to caregiving or whatever the fuck you want to diagnose me with. I _know_ that if Stan’s gonna clean up, he’s gotta do it himself. Is it so hard to believe that he can be fucked up, and I still wanna be with him?”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What will you do until he does? Are you going to wait around on the off-chance that he changes his ways?”

They were going in circles and it was really getting old. Kenny kept his emotions in check out of habit, but he was putting in overtime here. It was no surprise that the barrier broke.

“You know I smoke here all the time and no one’s ever given me shit for it? It’s not like they don’t see me.” To prove his point, Kenny took another cigarette from the pack. He’d swiped them from his dad the night before while he was passed out on the couch. American Legend; they tasted like soot and chemicals. Lighting it up, he looked Wendy in the eye and let the smoke tumble from him like words, like he’d seen Christophe do weeks before. “I didn’t show up to school for a whole month last year. No one gave a shit then either.” His voice grew tense. “Herbert _fucking_ Garrison kicks my head in right in the fucking school yard for blowing his toy boy. Nobody. Gave. A. Shit. So _why_ do you care now? Because you’re new? Because you’ve been told to?”

“Because I do.”

Kenny sighed.

“That’s great Wendy. I’m sure you do, and I’m sure you’re gonna be great for all these chicks with their anxiety and body issues, but this isn’t a cry for help. Stop trying to fix me because you couldn’t fix Stan.”

It was a low blow. Kenny couldn’t help the tinge of satisfaction at the way her smile dropped a fraction, but Wendy came back swinging.

“Kenny, despite what you may think, I’m not looking to sabotage you. Stan is my friend. Even I find it hard to see him this way, but if you’re going to be with him, you can’t be a crutch. It will drain both of you. You’ll end up resenting each other. I don’t want that for either of you.”

He wasn’t done fighting yet. Raising his eyes at her, Kenny said, “so Stan doesn’t deserve love unless he earns it?”

“This isn’t about Stan. It’s about you.” Wendy paused. She knew what saying the next words would do to him. “You’re seventeen.”

“So fucking what?”

“You’re young. I don’t think you realise how much you have to give or the price of it. I just want to make sure that you’re putting yourself first.”

“Because you did.”

“Because it’s what’s best for you,” she said. “Don’t try to fix Stan because you’re scared to fix yourself.”

His expression dropped. He couldn’t hide the impact. Round two: Wendy. Clicking his tongue, Kenny threw the cigarette to the ground. Wendy kept talking after that. Softer and kinder than before, but Kenny found he couldn’t take listening. Instead, he watched the flame fizzle out on the ground and wondered at the snow. The stub would be trodden through the ground and frozen into the mud. As Wendy kept talking, Kenny wondered if it would make it through to Spring.

 

.

 

The crack in his bedroom ceiling had leaked again. Kenny woke with a headache to the steady splat of water tinged moss green on his pillow, and the faint buzz of his phone on the floor. Saturday. The room smelled like rotting wood, but rain meant it was warmer and the rats would clear out of the garage. It meant Karen would go out with her friends rather than hiding in her room all day. It meant Kenny would wrap up, get out, and not have to see home until probably the following morning.

It was almost ritual these days that he met his friends outside the park. When they weren’t here, they were at Eric’s. Neither Kenny nor Butters wanted to be at home during the day, especially with their parents around.

Eric nodded when he spotted him. Butters smiled as sunny as ever, but Kenny was in no kind of mood for that. It hardly mattered though. Butters could be side-stepped and Cartman had never really had the decency to check in on him anyway. Inhaling deeply, he matched the nod.

“Where’s Kyle?”

“Synagogue. He’ll join later,” Cartman replied as they began to walk in some aimless direction.

“He’s a better man than all of us.” Kenny said with a forced smile. Sighing dramatically, he pushed his hands into his pockets. Cartman just snorted in reply.

“I’ll start going to church when they stop asking me how many dicks I’ve had up my ass lately.”

“Lost count huh?”

He deserved to be shoved for that, but he retaliated anyway, winning Eric’s wrath in reply. To escape, he threw an arm around Butters before the dithering began. Wringing his hands together, he looked to Kenny searchingly.

“Gee fellas, maybe we should go tomorrow? Why, I’d be awful sore if Kyle got to heaven and we didn’t.”

Ruffling his hair, Kenny smiled at Butters with what he hoped was comfort, but pity seeped through like sap from a tree until they were both sticky with it.

“I don’t think a one-hour service is going to save us hun.”

Butter’s leaned in to him as if seeking shelter, as if Kenny could feasibly protect him from anything. Cartman stood his ground just as he’d always done, shrugging in blind confidence of himself.

“Yeah, Jews don’t believe in heaven anyway. Olam Ha-Ba is about resurrection or some shit. Kyle’s got to do this crap all over again when he dies.”

Kenny snorted.

“Can you imagine?” he said. Neither of them blinked.

The conversation turned as they cut across the basketball court and through another row of trees. Kenny saw him between the branches. He was sprawled on a bench, determined to take up as much space as possible, book in his hand, and cigarette between his lips. Kenny stopped almost instantly and stared.

“Hey guys, I’ll catch you up ok?”

His friends slowed to a stop, looking blankly between Kenny and the man on the bench. He knew what it must have looked like, the conclusions they must have drawn. Christophe looked essentially homeless. Cartman had the more scathing look of the two as he followed Christophe’s form from top to toe.

“Is that your gravedigger?”

“No just this guy I know.”

“Kenny you’re my bro and I love you, but you have just awful taste,” he said, already turning to leave. “And I’m telling Mama Kyle you’re fraternising with hobos.”

“Whatever dude.”

“Just don’t give him any money or they’ll be crawling up our asses again.”

Unhooking his arm from Butters, Kenny was surprised when the boy grabbed it, frowning at him solemnly.

“We’ll wait for you up there. Just holler if you need any help.”

He should have been flattered he supposed at the touching display of bravery, but in that moment, he remembered those same eyes turned on him as he’d skipped off the porch of Stan’s log cabin. Kenny didn’t hold a grudge, but really, the thought of Butters protecting him from anything was laughable. He squeezed Butter’s arm comfortingly.

“Trust me. This guy’s harmless.”

Kenny stepped back and Butter’s hand fell away. He was at the bench before Christophe so much as moved. Looking up with the threat ready in his eyes, he didn’t even seem surprised.

“Ah c’est Ganymède.”

Kenny had too much pride to admit he didn’t understand. The tone made the dismissive insult clear enough.

“Cute. Tell me again about that married guy you’re fucking.”

Christophe snapped his book shut with an irate click of his tongue. Flicking a dead cigarette to the snow, he immediately reached into his jacket for another one.

“I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”

Kenny let his eyes travel over the man from his stained boots to the yellow of his eyes to the small pocket book in his dirty hands.

“ _Camus_?”

“It’s shit. What of it?”

“You’re such a stereotype dude.”

“You know many Frenchmen like me?”

“Miserable and existentialist? You know any who aren’t?”

Christophe snorted. Looking down to his hands, he lit his cigarette. Kenny watched the light change the grime of his fingertips. His nails were short, but the dirt was embedded thickly beneath the tips. Kenny took a step closer, shoved his hands sheepishly in his pockets and said, “can I bum a smoke?”   

The man before him huffed incredulously but reached into his breast pocket and handed him one anyway. Kenny bent over so the fire of Christophe’s lighter could reach him. The flame took, and the smoke exploded in his throat nothing like the ones his father had. Christophe watched on in satisfaction as Kenny broke into coughs.

“What you are tasting is quality bitch.”

Kenny brought a hand to his throat to rub against the burn. He glared but said nothing. The second time he was expecting it. The nicotine was rich on his tongue and rushed to his head instantly. When Kenny exhaled, his eye lashes fluttered, his muscles relaxed. It was a strange feeling. Had he been this tense? Kenny ran his tongue over his teeth and through heavy eyes regarded the man before him. Suddenly he was thinking of another conversation he’d had before. Christophe and Wendy were a far cry from one another, but they had one thing in common.

Christophe didn’t notice at first. He was watching the park, dark eyes trailing the curving concrete path to where his friends were walking. He lolled his head back as they rounded a corner, and his face turned to the sky. He closed his eyes, breathing a sigh, and Kenny’s thoughts took another turn to what Stan had told him. Drawing a shaky breath, he spoke.

“Stan said you died.”

It was probably why he’d approached him in the first place. God knew he wasn’t hot for another conversation with this edgelord. On the bench, the words made him stir. Christophe moved as if reanimated, looking at Kenny with something new on his face.

“You too?”

Kenny held his breath.

“All the time,” he said.

“That’s a bitch.”

And Kenny laughed because what more could he do. Christophe brought his ankle up to rest on his knee. Cigarette to his lips, Kenny saw the twists and turns of his thoughts like the cogs in a pocket watch.

“Is that what has drawn you to Stan?”

“What do you mean?”

“I would not blame you. He is a man used to death. It is a reprieve of sorts.”

If there had ever been any doubt in Kenny’s mind, it would have been lost now. Christophe spoke as if he understood. As if in a way, Stan’s friendship was a haven to him too. The knowledge burned as much as it comforted.

“You won’t find many people who understand in this town. God has forsaken us like my mother when she ran away with her twenty-five-year-old Dominican boyfriend on Christmas when I was twelve.”

“Yeah you clearly got outta that one scot-free.”

“We all have our demons, Ganymede.”

“So I’ve heard. Could ya stop calling me that?”

Christophe snorted a wordless but derisive ‘no’, flicking his cigarette to the ground. Kenny watched it fly. His own was forgotten, still burning between his fingers at his side. Christophe got out another one.

“So if you’re so miserable why did you come back?” he asked. It was moot point really; to a guy like this, death and living were both ways of losing.

“Isn’t it obvious? To stick it to God, that self-righteous son of a bitch,” Christophe said.

The conversation stopped as it always was going to. Kenny was at a loss. After nearly eighteen years of struggling at this alone, he had finally met a man who understood completely, and Kenny had nothing to say. Christophe wasn’t Stan. Kenny had never wanted to be understood. He’d wanted to be believed. He’d wanted to be comforted. He’d wanted to feel safe for once in his goddamn life. Stan had offered that, and Kenny had sunk his claws into it, swallowing it whole without even knowing he’d been starving.

“It was never about that.”

Christophe’s head had lulled back again. He seemed to prefer looking at the sky. He moved like a marionette, turning to him with scornful eyes.

“ _Quoi_?”

“Stan… Wendy kept saying I was trying to fix him,” Kenny breathed. The cigarette fell from his hands, the words from his lips. “But it wasn’t about that… I mean it was… _Christ_ … It was me leaning on him this whole time.”

Christophe moved with artless grace. He barely twitched at the words that had Kenny’s hands shaking as he raked them over his face.

“ _Boh_ that’s good then.”

“Good? Are you kidding me?”

For the first time, Christophe leaned forward, resting a bony elbow on his bended knee.

“It means that it is mutual. There are a lot of people who would give you many opinions on him, but Stan is a good man. He is deserving of happiness… And he is better with you.”

It was a bizarre ounce of honesty. One Kenny certainly hadn’t expected from him. Christophe was hunched before him. He looked oddly vulnerable when all he said was: “what is love if not a source of support? You are a good balance, you two.”

Now he really had slipped into the Twilight Zone. Staring at him, Kenny saw the ludicrous picture they made; two dead men on a park bench talking about love. Even this didn’t seem strange to him anymore.

“Thanks for the blessing I guess.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m telling you to stop being a bitch.” Christophe waved the book at him for emphasis. “And stop listening to Wendy, you cocksucker. Therapy is for bitches and cowards.”

Kenny only grinned. A sudden desire for movement burst through him.

“I knew you liked me really.”

He yelped when _L’Entranger_ slapped him on the thigh, but it was all for show. He couldn’t help the laugh. It didn’t drop until he thought of something new.

“Wait, don’t tell me you came here on purpose? I’ve literally never seen you here before.”

“No I came here to kill a bitch, but Stan is my friend. I was making two strikes with one stone.”

“What?”

But he was already on his feet. Christophe ruffled his hair as he passed, ignoring that it made the hood of his parka fall. He thought he heard him mutter goodbye, but the fresh rush a wind muffled his senses. Kenny watched him go, saw the backpack with shovel in it bouncing away. The saplings trembled around him, their leaves spinning like medallions in the wind. He turned his back and stayed in his lane. Kenny went back to his friends.

 

.

 

His heart in his ears and the sound of his feet pounding the ground drowned out the yells and police sirens. Kenny’s throat was itching for him to stop and take a breath, but as close as they were, he didn’t dare to.

Cartman had been the detonator, of course. They hadn’t even been doing anything too bad. Pabst Blue Ribbon and a couple rocks thrown at cars was probably worth no more than a slap on the wrist to the cops.  After all, no damage had been done. But time would freeze, and Kenny would stop dying the day that Eric Cartman saw a fire and didn’t douse it with gasoline. The officer had got a single foot out of the cruiser before Cartman shattered the windshield. The screams and yells had quickly followed, and above all else, Kenny’s own delighted laughter.

“Oh hamburgers!”

“God _damn dude!”_

“What the fuck fat ass?”

“It’s just pure mindless vandalism.”

 “We never should’ve let you watch that fucking show.”

“Whatever dude, just bail! Come on we gotta bail!”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

But Kyle had snapped to it and fallen right into step with them. On the outskirts of town there weren’t many buildings and nothing to hide behind but a wooden sign with stark black letters. Well, there was the Mephesto lab, but they didn’t go there anymore. Not since he’d tried to give Jimmy Valmer asses for legs. Among the road signs and sparse crowds of trees, there was one more place Kenny knew of. With his shoelaces slipping undone and his head spinning, Kenny ran.

He didn’t stop running until he’d scaled the fence and was out of sight on the other side. Only then, hands dropping to his knees did he allow himself a break. Once his breathing had levelled, He straightened up and watched the red and blue lights fly by in the distance. Since the first shatter of glass, more cruisers had joined in. He heard them now, howling like a pack of ravenous wolves. All of this for four delinquent teenagers. It really must have been a slow night.

The lights faded, and Kenny breathed again. His friends were gone, scattered to the wind. There wasn’t much he could do, but he sent them a text and finally let himself think. The dim light of his cell phone was all he had for sight, so he ran it along the names on the graves trying to feel less like he’d just walked into a survival game. It was definitely the cemetery, but in the chase, Kenny had lost track of what end. He’d dropped feet first into the labyrinth and could be anywhere. He didn’t recognise the tombstones at his feet, but eventually he came across a name he knew: Stotch. Kenny had to blink at it a couple times before he could place it.

It came to him all at once in the memory of a horrified Leopold Stotch. The dried pine needles muffled the sound of his steps as slowly he began to walk again. Kenny hadn’t known at first, hadn’t been able to see the log wood cabin for all the dark and the trees. During the day, he would have been able to see water through the trunks, but at night the pond was a black hole sinking into the earth. Sure enough, when he followed the row of graves to the end, the warm light of Stan’s porch came into view, a lighthouse in a sea of night and tombstones. Kenny gravitated towards it like a ship to the shoreline.

He knew where he was. He could have just gone home. That was really what he ought to do, but there was nothing at his back but black. He could picture Stan’s face like a siren call when he knocked at the door, blinking and bewildered but welcoming either way.

When he knocked, no answer came at first. Inside the light was on, but Kenny heard no movement. Either Stan was asleep, or nobody was home. Kenny deflated right there on the porch. He sank to the steps suddenly unsure of what to do. He really should just go home, but it was cold and dark and the thought of moving from this shelter made his bones ache. He wanted to curl up and sleep. He wanted to see Stan.

“Kenny?”

Stan came as if summoned. Opening his eyes, Kenny tipped his head back to stare at the man above him. There were moths fluttering at the porchlight. Kenny could hear the small bumps of their bodies as over and over again they drove themselves into the flame.

When he spoke, he found himself breathless.

“Hey.” He drew out the sound, stretching it to fill the silence. He’d been right. Stan was in pyjamas. His voice was rough with sleep. When he pulled away from the front door and closer to Kenny, he saw the indent of a pillow on his face. Only then did Kenny think of just what time it was. That, of course, most people wouldn’t be expecting visitors to come knocking in the dead of the night.

“How did it happen this time?” Stan asked between yawns.

“It didn’t.”

“Really? You just wanted to come and see me at 3.30 in the morning.”

“Yes,” Kenny said truthfully. He was still leaning his head against the wall, he closed his eyes. “Also I was being chased by the cops.”

Wrapping his arms around himself, Stan wasn’t even surprised.

“You’re gonna get a reputation dude.”

“Too late for that.” Kenny looked up with a grin. His hood fell back. “Don’t you wanna know what I did?”

Stan contemplated this seriously as he bounced from foot to foot.

“I’m gonna assume it was stupid.”

“Duh.”

 Stan’s chuckle was like a crackling hearth or the snap of a bonfire. In the February cold, it warmed him to the core. One of his knees creaked as he crouched on the step above him, and Kenny watched his breath fall from pale lips like clouds.

He was surprised to feel the hand in his hair, large and warm. ‘Manly,’ he thought to himself with a flush. Stan always liked to do this when he was half asleep.

“Do you wanna come inside?” he asked, and he was already getting to his feet as he said it. Kenny watched him rise.

“No.”

It wasn’t what Stan had expected. He halted hallway up before coming back down with his brow knitted in bewilderment.

“Huh?”

“I said no.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

It was so sweetly genuine. It was one of Stan’s best qualities, but it was Kenny who was different. In all these weeks of people talking at him, Kenny had never brought it to Stan. But now he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Is this in my head?”

He had been thinking it over and over for months now, but to finally hear the words take form was jarring. His heart beat like a bassline. Kenny heard it in his breathing, felt it in his head, the soles of his feet. He hadn’t realised how badly he’d needed to say those words until cheap beer and adrenalin brought them out of him.

Stan. Stan was looking at the ground, at the frozen steps of his house, and the snow that glowed amber in the porchlight. For a moment, Kenny thought he hadn’t heard him. Until slowly, quietly, dipping his chin between his arms, he said, “Ken...”

Whatever it was, Kenny wasn’t sure he could take it.

“Look I don’t wanna put you on the spot here. I know it’s hard for you and all, but subtlety has never really been my thing.” Kenny sighed and scratched his head in frustration. “Look, I like you, like _a lot_ and I don’t know where you’re at morally, but I get the vibe that you’re into me too, so please just let me know what the hell we’re doing right now.”

“Dude...”

“Or I could be totally misreading this. If so then please just tell me fast so I can stop embarrassing myself and go kill myself instead.”

“Kenny!”

He shut up instantly. At some point his eyes had lost Stan, but now he looked back to him in surprise.

 “What?”

He’d raised his head to be heard, but slowly Stan was falling back to the defence of his arms. He grimaced. When he spoke, it was soft as the whispers of warm breath in the air.

“It’s not in your head,” he promised.

Kenny said nothing at first. What in the hell was there to say?

“Oh.” Absolutely anything would have been better than that. Glancing to the side and praying to every positive karma point he’d ever earned that he wasn’t blushing, Kenny continued, “so ...”

“So nothing dude. It’s not that simple.”

“How is it not simple? You like me. I like you. I’m eighteen in like four weeks dude.”

Again, Kenny was forcing him to say words he didn’t want to.

“You know it’s not just your age Ken. I’m not…” Stan took a bracing breath. “I’m a barely-functional alcoholic, dude, and a cynical asshole. Don’t you think it’s weird that the only guy I ever hang out with is literally the biggest jerk in existence…”

“Wait ‘til you meet my friends dude,” Kenny scoffed, but Stan only shot him a silencing look.

“My point is I drove them away. I drink too much, and I isolate myself and… You _know_ I’m no good for you right now.”

They fell into silence. Kenny stared at him blankly as he processed the words.

“Stan, look at me.”

He brought his hands to pale cheeks. Kenny’s fingertips were burning from the cold. He pictured he saw them hiss when they touched Stan’s skin.

“You’re fucked up. Everybody thinks you’re an asshole. You have no hobbies, no sense of purpose, terrible self-esteem, horrible taste in friends and you’re in desperate need of therapy.”

Whatever Stan had been expecting him to say it wasn’t that. He tried to jerk away in outrage.

“What the fuck dude?”

But Kenny was too stubborn to let him go. Clasping harder, he rose to his knees and said “no, listen to me. I’m saying that I see you. Stan, I’m not under any delusion here.”

Stan was still. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but even Kenny knew it had softened.

“You’re pretty shit too you know,” he said eventually, and it startled an indignant sound from Kenny’s lips. “I’m serious dude. You sulk like _all_ the time because you’re too stubborn to let yourself complain, and you’re so full of shit you think you can tell a couple jokes and no one’ll notice. You have like _zero_ sense of self-preservation, and you’re willing to take on anyone’s problems but your own. Worst part is it’s not even out of some martyr complex or whatever. You’re just that destructively selfless.”

For a moment, Kenny was struck dumb. His hands fell back to his sides. It was an odd thing: realising the glass had been transparent on both sides all along, that when Kenny had cast glances at Stan, the gravedigger had stolen them back. Suddenly, it wasn’t just his fingers that were burning. Kenny’s whole body felt hot as he said, “don’t sugar coat it dude.”

Stan was more sober and alert than he’d ever been when he said, “you need therapy kid, desperately.”

Kenny pushed back with a frown.

“ _You_ need to leave the damn graveyard, old man.”

“You need to respect your elders.”

“You need to stop drinking.”

“You need to stop dying.”

It shouldn’t have been funny. None of it was, but he smiled all the same. It spilled out of him, from his eyes, his pores, his lips. “I can’t. I’m cursed.”

“We all are.” He sounded like Christophe, but when Stan smiled, he looked like Kenny. “So you get it. This’d never work.”

That was also true. Stan had always been brutally honest, but when Kenny spoke, he gave as good as he got.

“Do you care?”

It dropped between them not with a fall but with a bounce. Stan mulled it over like pebbles on a riverbed.

“No,” he said as if only now realising it himself. “No, I don’t.”

That was where the words left them; kneeling on a dim porch in the freezing cold of February, looking at one another anew. For the first time, Kenny felt like he could see the other end. They were never going to have a clean solution, but Kenny would take it muddied if it meant Stan would have him.

His legs had gone numb about ten minutes ago. When he shifted them, they prickled with pins and needles, and suddenly his body was buzzing with the porchlight. Kenny knew they were never going to be glamorous. He also knew he didn’t care.

“A lot of people have been giving me a lot of advice lately,” he said, leaning into the ache. “They make it sound like… did your grandma ever tell you when you made a face that if the wind changed it’d get stuck like that?” Stan nodded attentively. Kenny continued, “it’s like who I choose to be now is who I’ll be for the rest of my life so I gotta put myself first. Everything that’s wrong with me, I gotta fix it now or I’ll be broken for the rest of my life. And I listen to these teachers or councillors or career advisers and I just think: none of this matters to me. What the hell can college do for me? What the hell am I gonna do with a wife and kids and a 401(k)? I don’t want any of that shit.”

Kenny paused. It was the most he’d ever talked about himself. He could feel the blush on his cheeks. Still, Stan stayed quiet through it all. He listened. When Kenny spoke this time, he made sure to look him right in the eye.

“I don’t like you cause you’re a fixer-upper, dude, or because you believed me about my curse. You showed me an out. You showed me that ‘doing the right thing’ is just doing what everyone else wants you too. Like the whole town talks shit about you all the time and you don’t care.”

“Yeah that’s not a good thing Ken.”

“Are you kidding? It’s awesome.”

“My life isn’t glamorous, dude. I drink ‘cause I’m profoundly unhappy.”

“That’s a lie.”

Stan stopped short again. He pinched his nose in utter frustration as if no one had ever called him out before, and Kenny found himself wondering if anyone ever had.

“You’re right. It’s ‘cause I’m in South Park, because nothing in this dump ever changes,” Stan’s shoulders were tense. He was just as exposed as Kenny, just as unprepared. “I don’t like to think about it.”

“You like this job though right? I can tell you do.”

Stan’s hand moved from his face to his hair, he scratched at it absentmindedly.

“I do. I like the plants and the grounds. Plus, this house…living here… I can do things at my own pace. People don’t come here unless they have to.”

“You should move in then.”

“Huh?”

“Dude, you live in somebody else’s house.”

To his surprise, Stan laughed. He looked at Kenny meekly, and suddenly, he wasn’t manly at all. _Cute_. It flared in his mind like the last gasp of a candle.

“Could you get of my case dude? I feel like I’m in therapy.”

“I’ve had practice. I’m Ms. Wendy’s favourite patient.”

“Seriously? Isn’t that a conflict of interest or something?”

“That’s what I said!” Kenny exclaimed, slapping Stan’s shoulder who lost his balance a little and had to bring a hand out to catch himself, but he laughed. Watching in satisfaction, Kenny said, “she thinks this is a bad idea too.”

It didn’t seem to bother Stan.

“She would,” he said, bringing his hand to rest on his thigh. “But I’ve never been great at listening to her anyway.”

Stan was leaning into him for warmth. Kenny could see the bumps on his arms and the dark hairs seeking him out.

“You really suck,” Kenny said with a smile, letting the heat distract him. “Wait. You mean we’re doing this?”

“Isn’t that where we landed on the issue?”

Stan was only in sweatpants. They hid nothing.

“I… where?”

“That this is a terrible idea. We both need new friends and therapy, and we’ll end up either co-dependent or mortal enemies,” Stan said.

They were touching. Feeling was returning to his legs, but Kenny ached where their legs pressed together. He tried to remember if he’d ever touched Stan’s bare skin before and realised he’d touched his cheek. His hands had sparked with the feeling of stubble at his fingertips. Unrestrained, his mind slipped from jaw to collarbone to chest to lower.

“Sounds dramatic,” he said. It came out hot and the air around them change. Stan’s gaze dropped, and the feeling caught like kindling.

“That’s what people say.”

He’d always liked Stan’s shoulders. He liked the callouses he knew he’d find on his palms. Six months of not thinking about it, suddenly Kenny could do nothing else. Stan still had this pull over him. Call it magnetic, gravitational, whatever the fuck, but it crumbled his thoughts away. He only had the sanity to say one more thing.

“Shows what people know.” Then he rose up, arms closing around broad shoulders as he finally their lips came together. He didn’t ask this time, and a small part of him expected Stan to push him away so Kenny retreated first. He pulled away from the kiss. Only the slightest touch, but it fired his nerves. All he could feel was his lips. Licking them nervously, he studied Stan. They were outside after all, bathed in the only light for miles. Anyone could’ve seen them…

…But it was 3AM, and neither of them cared.

Kenny caught a mutter on Stan’s breath, before the tension in his shoulders eased, and Stan was kissing him back.

Kenny had thought about how Stan might kiss before. It had first invaded his thoughts when looking at Wendy. Wendy with her sweet face and boundless empathy, Stan would have cherished her. He would have been gentle. In the parking lot, swamped with cheap cigarettes and slush, Kenny had felt dirty. He’d never been kissed like that. He didn’t know how. If Stan ever kissed him, it would be rough and selfish because it was all Kenny knew.

But Stan wasn’t like that at all. His hands pressed warm and hard onto Kenny’s back, pulling them flush together, and Kenny realised he hadn’t thought about how Stan kissed at all. Because he did it as he did everything else, deeply, honestly and so devotedly. Stan gripped him tightly. He pulled Kenny closer as if it wouldn’t be enough until they were smothered. Until his entire world was Kenny. In that moment, Kenny thought his heart might break. It was stupidly dramatic, but Kenny was cut wide open. He was raw. All he could do was kiss back until his heart found its place buried in Stan’s chest.

The second time they came apart, Kenny shuddered. Stan’s eyes had glazed over, and he chased Kenny’s lips as he pulled away.

“Guess I know where you’re at morally.”

“Shut up Kenny.”

When his back hit the wall, the whole cabin shuddered. Kenny fell from his knees onto his ass on the planks still scrabbling at Stan. The cold wood chilled him through his trousers, but his lap was warm and full of Stan. Kenny pushed back this time. Stan’s mouth was hot and bitter, but Kenny chased the taste like he was starving, driving hands into hair, under his clothes.

It only took one needy word to break the spell.

“ _Stan_.”

His tongue, his lips were gone. Stan scrambled back, stumbling clumsily to his feet.

“No no no, I am not doing this here.”

Leaning against the wall and feeling honestly, pretty ravaged, it took Kenny a moment to catch his breath. Clearing his throat and trying at less deliriousness, he spoke.

“Can we go inside then?”

Stan was just as messy. His sweatpants did nothing to hide Kenny’s handwork. Stan adjusted himself sheepishly and said, “not if you think you’re gonna jump me as soon as we get in.”

“Seriously, your moral compass is like all over the place tonight.”

“One of us has got to be an adult dude,” Stan shot back. “And we both know it’s not you. God what the _fuck_ am I doing??” That wasn’t for Kenny. Stan said it to himself, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

Kenny cut it off at the neck. Wobbling to his feet, he held up pacifying hands to Stan.

“Ok I promise I won’t do anything to sully your maiden virtue until I can vote, join the army and still not drink.” Kenny closed his arms around himself. Without the weight of Stan on top of him, he was exposed to the elements, and it was fucking freezing. Kenny eye him apprehensively. Stan was only in a t-shirt. How was he not dying? “Can I come in now? I won’t stay just give me a sec to rest up, and I’ll get outta here.” He smiled as something else occurred to him. “Don’t want you getting a reputation.”

Stan just rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be a douche dude. It’s 4AM and you’re a fugitive of the law. Get your ass inside.”

Kenny grinned as he followed Stan to the door.

“It was one stupid windshield.”

“Stop talking. I want plausible deniability McCormick.”

“Shut up old man. Also if not now when can we fuck because that’s a real deal-breaker for me?”

Stan scoffed. Just like Kenny thought he would.

“Ask me again in a month.”

Kenny whined in indignation, but quickly followed it up with a laugh. Grabbing the back of Stan’s shirt, Kenny pulled him closer. Looping his arms around him, Kenny buried his face between Stan’s shoulder blades, inhaling deeply. He loved how Stan smelled like earth; how he ran hot even when it was minus a thousand degrees outside; how when Kenny accidently tripped them up, all he did was laugh. Closing his eyes, Kenny squeezed tighter and remembered the shape of a man in the distance with a cap covering his face as he slowly dug a grave.

Throwing a smile back at him, Stan opened the door and let them in.

 

.

 

The sky wasn’t all grey that morning. It had rained the night before, and the ground was still trickling small streams from the mountain top. Under the oak tree, the bench was dry, but every now and then water would fall in fat drops from the leaves above, and the birds would chase them down with a chirp. The ground was soft and sunk underfoot, but with every step, the grass wiped his worn-out, too-small boots clean. There was life in the cemetery again. Spring was coming small and quiet as the first stirrings of morning. There were daisy shoots on Kenny McCormick’s grave.

In the shy light of the morning sun, he approached the resting man with a smile on his face.

“Hey mister. If you’re going to take a nap can you do it on your own grave?”

The gravedigger stirred, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“I can’t.” Stan said, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs with barely contained joy. “This one’s special.”

Kenny grinned. Dropping his knees to the dirt, the soil slurped as if recognising him. He put a hand to Stan’s face. Leaning over him, he let himself sink into the earth.

“And why’s that?”

Finally, blue eyes opened and again, Kenny chased the flecks of grey with a smile. Stan tilted his chin up to the grave.

“The man I love is buried here.”

Kenny laughed. He began to speak, but the hand in his hair stopped him. Caressing his pulse point with gentle thumbs, Stan murmured, “happy birthday Ken.”

Kenny pressed their foreheads together with a sigh. Quietly, he let rough fingertips guide him into a kiss. 

 

.

 

‘I passed an ancient grave

On which grew seven red anemones.

“Whose tomb is this?” I asked

And the Earth replied,

“Tread carefully, a lover lies here.”’

_One Thousand and One Nights by Hanan Al-Shaykh_

 

.

 

Stan Marsh’s house wasn’t much. It was small and tired and some of the walls were bare, but from the ones that weren’t he hung framed posters of his favourite bands. The front door was always muddy from where he dumped his hiking equipment after a particularly long journey. He kept books about wildlife and mountaineering on his shelves along with photos of his family, his friends.

Stan’s bedsheets were plain navy just like most of his furniture. It wasn’t adventurous, but it was a colour he liked. The sheets were often unmade. Stan liked them most when they were tangled up in golden limbs. In the morning he would kiss the blonde hair speckled along those legs like bread crumbs.

His wooden desk was messy with papers and letters and all those things he’d deal with later but never did. He kept his AA chips in a small, recycled candle jar that his ex-wife had given him for Christmas. It was wrapped in a crinkled purple bow. It still smelled of lilac. The chips chattered against each other whenever he dropped a new one in.

The guitar stand was still in the corner, but it was often left empty. Stan’s Gibson was more at home on the couch where he would pick it up and pluck at it in the evening. Kenny had asked him to find a particular song from his childhood for him. Stan had, and then he’d learned them all. As the sun set and the dinner cooked, Kenny would lounge on the sofa, his feet in Stan’s lap and listen to the bare tones of The Mountain Goats. Absentminded and quietly, he would hum along, never seeing how it made Stan smile.

He kept plants on the windowsill in the kitchen. It was the part of the job he’d always enjoyed; flowers and herbs. He watered them in the morning while he waited for the coffee machine.

He only kept two things from the previous owner.

The coffee brewed.

Stan poured it into two mugs with matching dragonfly tattoos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is Minnesota by the Mountain Goats. By far one of my favourite bands and a great source of inspiration for my SP fics. This fic was brought to you by them and “Does your mother know” by ABBA lol
> 
> You may have guessed that I’m reading The Stranger rn and he is all kinds of boring. I guess that’s my fault for thinking a book about the pointless monotony of life would be anything other than pointless and monotonous.
> 
> I really hit a wall with this chapter. I’m so happy it’s finally done and I may also add a little epilogue that I wrote within the next few days. But yes that’s it! I hope you enjoyed my clumsy attempt at depth. Thank you for battling through it. Let me know what you think!


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